Tottenham Hotspur's 4-4 draw aggregate draw over Manchester City in the Champions League quarter final last Wednesday has been described by at least one person who isn't a BT Sport employee as the "best game of football ever played". And away from my office, other examples of gushing and slow head-shaking in disbelief were in some supply.
On the night in question, an online contributor to BBC Sport's live feed, no less, informed other virtual viewers and hindsight heroes that this match "reminds you why you love football". Ironically, other visitors, looking for reports rather than unwanted opinion, found that this remark actually reminded them why they hated it so often.
Contrary to assumptions, not everyone took so fondly to the celebrated events at the Etihad Stadium, and in a poll hastily arranged after the game, large swathes of the North London area in which Tottenham Hotspur reside experienced feelings of sadness and nausea, with the most strongly affected considering the possibility of withdrawing from the sport completely, particularly if the victorious side were also to be seen jumping around like squealing schoolchildren in Madrid two rounds on.
Further research in the field suggests that absolute nation happiness after a dramatic sporting event is a fallacy. Again we look to North London for a stand-out case study. Hotspur's rivals, Arsenal, clinched the First Division title in the very last minute on the very last night of the 1988-89 season by winning 2-0 at Liverpool, who would have won it had they lost only 1-0. This was thought to be regarded by everyone as the most fascinating finish to a league season, though we now understand that a substantial proportion of people in North London, or who at least support a team in North London, did not greet the sight of Tony Adams lifting the trophy with any grain of pleasure. Furthermore, 30 years on, the worth of that sporting fairytale at Anfield is dismissed by Sky Sports and BT Sport executives, seeing as it happened live on free-to-air ITV. Indeed, should anyone try to begin presenting the facts of the occasion to Sky, they are cut off mid-argument with screams of "Agueroooooo!!"
ITV themselves, are not free of the charge of speaking for everybody, though. You will be familiar by now of Clive Tyldesley's 1999 mistaken belief that nobody cared where the Germans were when Manchester United sealed the treble that year. It is now recognised that as much as half the country were actually deeply concerned by the whereabouts of the Germans (other nations were available in the Bayern Munich back four)
In a non-sporting context, Tyldesley has been aped most recently by Brexit conductor, Nigel Farage, who, the morning of his June 2016 victory over his arch nemesis, the EU, observed that "even the sun's come out" to apparently symbolise nationwide delight over a 52%-48% winning vote for the Leave party.
Some are even claiming that City and Hotspur conjured up a cynical, Farage-esque ploy to distract people from yet another dismal Premier League Saturday afternoon, just as people were gathering momentum to complain about fixtures on both Friday and Monday nights and Sunday afternoons that left Gary Lineker and chums red-faced on Saturday evening when only able to offer viewers all the action from the Veterans' Subbuteo League.
So then, on Wednesday night, Lineker, in league with Raheem Sterling, Son-Heong Min and VAR, put out all the right words to stave off what could have been a rising mutiny.
"Even the Son has come out" he might as said.
Sunday, 21 April 2019
Wednesday, 10 April 2019
5 things I hate in football as the mark of Lawro unfolds
Coming in from a wonderful day out of the house with the good lady partner and kids, I switched on the telly for the Manchester City and Brighton & Hove Albion FA Cup semi-final at, sadly obviously, Wembley. I tuned in on the 39th minute of the first half. Before the 40th was out, Martin Keown shoehorned in a "by the way", leaving where he left off in the quarter final.
Goodness knows how many other minutes previously were molested by this phrase, one that, if we are not careful, could become the new "to be fair" in offices and pubs up an down the country. While the origins of btw lay with Mark Lawrenson, tbf's existence has a cloudier history, without anyone being credited/called into account for its infectious arrival in daily speak. While one is tempted to cite Big Ron Atkinson as the pioneer of tbf, he was always more of an "in fairness to the lad" observer, which is similar but not the same. Nope, can't blame Big Ron for that one.
Whoever is responsible, and thus indirectly guilty of Robbie Savage uttering tbf a record 17 times in one segment of analysis on Match of The Day 2, they can be thanked for tbh branching out into the fast food world, where a popular burger chain has used an authentic or otherwise member of the public to advertise their latest offering by way of a review rounded off with a tbf. According to one branch manager, the burger in question has been "flying out the door" ever since the Ad hit the bus shelters.
So no wonder btw is being peddled by BBC as frenetically as The Bodyguard was last year. Keown may be an odd choice as poster boy, but in the 42nd minute Steve Wilson sold another btw, and you begin to feel concern for Lawrenson, who may feel that his gift to the world is being abused to greater acclaim by so-called colleagues.
For now, Lawro may have to settle for the compliment of imitation, particularly as another of those colleagues, Gary Lineker, unwittingly paid tribute to the once moustachioed stopper at half time, when describing an altercation between City's Kyle Walker and Brighton's Alireza Jahanbakhsh as "handbags at thirty paces". Comparing male players to girls carries all the hallmarks of Lawro in his indulged days and takes us right back to the dark days of 2014.
Yet neither of these former internationals can match up to the yardstick narcissism of pitch-side reporter, Dan Walker, who seamlessly adapted his Football Focus interview approach here by asking for the thoughts of some supporters, only to whip away the microphone to someone else while they were still speaking. The supporters in question were one of 500 teenagers given tickets by City diver, Raheem Sterling, in a move typical of his club in that everyone got to hear abut it.
In the same way that BBC radio and tv ran extensive coverage of City being led out by two elderly women early this season, in scenes designed to ignore how women in the ruling state of Abu Dhabi are treated, all Sterling's gesture was missing was a placard with the word 'CHARIDEE' on it.
But that's modern football, eschewing ironies by presenting false pleasantries and showcasing unnatural-sounding club DJ's, while VAR wastes it's time focussing its lens on misunderstood players.
"It's a real problem, Chappers", Jermaine Jenas commented on air, before addressing him as "Mark" off-camera.
Goodness knows how many other minutes previously were molested by this phrase, one that, if we are not careful, could become the new "to be fair" in offices and pubs up an down the country. While the origins of btw lay with Mark Lawrenson, tbf's existence has a cloudier history, without anyone being credited/called into account for its infectious arrival in daily speak. While one is tempted to cite Big Ron Atkinson as the pioneer of tbf, he was always more of an "in fairness to the lad" observer, which is similar but not the same. Nope, can't blame Big Ron for that one.
Whoever is responsible, and thus indirectly guilty of Robbie Savage uttering tbf a record 17 times in one segment of analysis on Match of The Day 2, they can be thanked for tbh branching out into the fast food world, where a popular burger chain has used an authentic or otherwise member of the public to advertise their latest offering by way of a review rounded off with a tbf. According to one branch manager, the burger in question has been "flying out the door" ever since the Ad hit the bus shelters.
So no wonder btw is being peddled by BBC as frenetically as The Bodyguard was last year. Keown may be an odd choice as poster boy, but in the 42nd minute Steve Wilson sold another btw, and you begin to feel concern for Lawrenson, who may feel that his gift to the world is being abused to greater acclaim by so-called colleagues.
For now, Lawro may have to settle for the compliment of imitation, particularly as another of those colleagues, Gary Lineker, unwittingly paid tribute to the once moustachioed stopper at half time, when describing an altercation between City's Kyle Walker and Brighton's Alireza Jahanbakhsh as "handbags at thirty paces". Comparing male players to girls carries all the hallmarks of Lawro in his indulged days and takes us right back to the dark days of 2014.
Yet neither of these former internationals can match up to the yardstick narcissism of pitch-side reporter, Dan Walker, who seamlessly adapted his Football Focus interview approach here by asking for the thoughts of some supporters, only to whip away the microphone to someone else while they were still speaking. The supporters in question were one of 500 teenagers given tickets by City diver, Raheem Sterling, in a move typical of his club in that everyone got to hear abut it.
In the same way that BBC radio and tv ran extensive coverage of City being led out by two elderly women early this season, in scenes designed to ignore how women in the ruling state of Abu Dhabi are treated, all Sterling's gesture was missing was a placard with the word 'CHARIDEE' on it.
But that's modern football, eschewing ironies by presenting false pleasantries and showcasing unnatural-sounding club DJ's, while VAR wastes it's time focussing its lens on misunderstood players.
"It's a real problem, Chappers", Jermaine Jenas commented on air, before addressing him as "Mark" off-camera.
Sunday, 7 April 2019
The Football-Speak juggernaut blazes a trail once more, to be fair
Last Sunday, during Cardiff City versus Chelsea on Five Live, the honour fell to Conor McNamara to officially unveil the Business End of the Season.
Or at least, it was Norm (the nickname McNamara's golf buddy, Steve 'Claridge' Claridge gave him after a particularly heavy evening in the club bar at The John Smith Stadium) who unveiled it for me. Perhaps the ribbon had already been cut by other media stars without my knowledge, but on a personal level, I couldn't think of anyone more appropriate to deliver the last of the stock, stonewall phrases that are crucially imbedded into the British football season journey.
Norm's timing was spot on, in the right place at the right time to associate the final seven games in the Premier League with briefcases and boardrooms and contracts waiting to be finalised. The man's awareness hasn't dimmed with the passing years of anecdotal mishaps on the 14th hole and each round in the clubhouse shirked by Claridge. He may have trouble remembering Claridge's reason behind Norm as a nickname (as does Claridge, by the way), but the important stuff remains intact. Norm meanwhile, will carry on presuming that this example of Claridge's famous teasing relates to the name of the bar-stool resident of the American sitcom, Cheers! - after all, everyone knows McNamara likes a drink, even if not everyone knows his name.
The road to the Business End of the Season is a gruelling one, and Norm has in effect lit the domestic football torch with the final pronouncement (and in case anyone missed it, he said it again the next night during Arsenal versus Newcastle United). Eight months earlier, the critical label process began its journey, as usual, even before the Premier League had got underway. That August, Norm's colleagues in the media, be they commentators, voiceovers, presenters, journalists, pundits, would have been reminded of their duties to label the Community Shield as "the traditional curtain-raiser to the Premier League season". As long as one of them got it in there somewhere, everyone else could stand down and relax.
Once that traditional introduction to the Wembley friendly between the league champions and FA Cup winners is safely locked in, The Media Assembled are then armed with the tools that will ensure we are carefully guided through the rest of the campaign.
The first landmark phrase of the season comes around mid-September, five or so games in. Usually by then, at least one team will have made a strong start, undefeated and possibly a taker of maximum points, which allows broadcasters to say that this team has "made a statement". Not statements like, "you're all going to lose your jobs at the end of the month" that actually scare people, but statements made up of a short-term ability to score more goals than their possibly weak opponents. The worth of the Statement involving Manchester United in 2017-18 was confirmed by a journalist from The Telegraph, or maybe The Times, perhaps The Daily Star, who claimed that "Mourinho has got them all wanting to pay for him".
The next media statement in the domestic catalogue normally appears in November, when everyone in the industry is expected to tell the public that Manchester City might go a whole season unbeaten.
Around mid-February, all television and print artists pepper their programmes and editions with intel that Manchester City are "on the hunt for the quadruple" (just not with an unbeaten record) and explain that this is what will be in all the headlines.
And so to early April, the Business End, when the finish line is in sight, just over a month away before we all find out what happens in the end, whether we hear the constant accompaniment or not. But let's not unfasten our seatbelts yet fellow aircraft passengers, because there's still A Lot of Football To Be Played Between Now and Then, and there's bound to be Plenty of Twists and Turns along the way, probably Right To The Wire.
That's modern football for you, a number of shadow phrases playing between the established lines.
Or at least, it was Norm (the nickname McNamara's golf buddy, Steve 'Claridge' Claridge gave him after a particularly heavy evening in the club bar at The John Smith Stadium) who unveiled it for me. Perhaps the ribbon had already been cut by other media stars without my knowledge, but on a personal level, I couldn't think of anyone more appropriate to deliver the last of the stock, stonewall phrases that are crucially imbedded into the British football season journey.
Norm's timing was spot on, in the right place at the right time to associate the final seven games in the Premier League with briefcases and boardrooms and contracts waiting to be finalised. The man's awareness hasn't dimmed with the passing years of anecdotal mishaps on the 14th hole and each round in the clubhouse shirked by Claridge. He may have trouble remembering Claridge's reason behind Norm as a nickname (as does Claridge, by the way), but the important stuff remains intact. Norm meanwhile, will carry on presuming that this example of Claridge's famous teasing relates to the name of the bar-stool resident of the American sitcom, Cheers! - after all, everyone knows McNamara likes a drink, even if not everyone knows his name.
The road to the Business End of the Season is a gruelling one, and Norm has in effect lit the domestic football torch with the final pronouncement (and in case anyone missed it, he said it again the next night during Arsenal versus Newcastle United). Eight months earlier, the critical label process began its journey, as usual, even before the Premier League had got underway. That August, Norm's colleagues in the media, be they commentators, voiceovers, presenters, journalists, pundits, would have been reminded of their duties to label the Community Shield as "the traditional curtain-raiser to the Premier League season". As long as one of them got it in there somewhere, everyone else could stand down and relax.
Once that traditional introduction to the Wembley friendly between the league champions and FA Cup winners is safely locked in, The Media Assembled are then armed with the tools that will ensure we are carefully guided through the rest of the campaign.
The first landmark phrase of the season comes around mid-September, five or so games in. Usually by then, at least one team will have made a strong start, undefeated and possibly a taker of maximum points, which allows broadcasters to say that this team has "made a statement". Not statements like, "you're all going to lose your jobs at the end of the month" that actually scare people, but statements made up of a short-term ability to score more goals than their possibly weak opponents. The worth of the Statement involving Manchester United in 2017-18 was confirmed by a journalist from The Telegraph, or maybe The Times, perhaps The Daily Star, who claimed that "Mourinho has got them all wanting to pay for him".
The next media statement in the domestic catalogue normally appears in November, when everyone in the industry is expected to tell the public that Manchester City might go a whole season unbeaten.
Around mid-February, all television and print artists pepper their programmes and editions with intel that Manchester City are "on the hunt for the quadruple" (just not with an unbeaten record) and explain that this is what will be in all the headlines.
And so to early April, the Business End, when the finish line is in sight, just over a month away before we all find out what happens in the end, whether we hear the constant accompaniment or not. But let's not unfasten our seatbelts yet fellow aircraft passengers, because there's still A Lot of Football To Be Played Between Now and Then, and there's bound to be Plenty of Twists and Turns along the way, probably Right To The Wire.
That's modern football for you, a number of shadow phrases playing between the established lines.
Thursday, 4 April 2019
Friday Night Clive
There's nothing worse - other than terminal illness, terrorism and all senseless violence, or indeed genuine disasters like tsunami's and volcanoes, and not forgetting, of course, bankruptcy and mental health problems, in fact practically everything else in the world - than the Friday night international football fixture.
Not only - if you're English - does it mean a literally pointless friendly against an opponent bereft of their best players, or a routine qualifying win over a nation that didn't exist 25 years ago, but also a bulldozing of the domestic weekend fixtures, too.
Why must I have a double header of this tripe? Why subject me to Clive Tyldesley twice in four days? I refused to get sucked in, and it was easy not to. ITV's trailer for England's Wembley Euro 2020-qualifying game-that-isn't-the-Nations-League against Czech Republic, had the voice of Tyldesley leading us through the trenches, "Deep breath, here we go again!"
This is exactly how I feel about any game that Tyldesley is commentating on. For instance, England v France, Euro 2004, when just prior to kick off he tell us "You can hold hands if you like".
If there is any consolation for Pay TV-avoiders losing their right to watch any European action, then it is not having to listen to C to the T, as he probably introduces himself. The highlights of the Czech Republic game is there on the ITV Hub, sponsored by pizza, waiting for me to watch, but even if I am intrigued to hear who Tyldesley's new (or latest) co-commentator is in the absence of Glenn Hoddle, who I hope is recovering well from his heart attack, I would be more interested in watching The Real Housewives of Cheshire, and I'm never watching that.
Turning the sound off is an option, yes, which offers too, an authentic taste of the real live atmosphere as well as not having to hear the tedious Three Lions band competing with Tyldesley for most persistently inane backing vocals throughout the night (although the sugar-addled freak behind the Wembley public address system would trump both in the event of a basketball-type score). But then you're essentially watching Raheem Sterling and Harry Palmer, sorry Michael Kane, no Harry Kane, celebrating in silence, and I for one, don't want that.
But unlike Tyldesley, I don't want to be accused of talking on behalf of people ("Where were the Germans...frankly who cares? Nou Camp, 1999), and there will be those who appreciate both his patronising schtick, and the chance to watch their national team humiliate an underdog. It's just that, in the words of Barry Davies, as Great Britain's Hockey team beat West Germany in the 1988 Olympics Final, frankly who cares? Not me.
While these days a weekend without any of the sides in my team's division playing is just really annoying, I don't know how I would have coped with this as a primary school age child. In those times, I was dependant on the hit of a score flash during the Saturday afternoon rugby league match on Grandstand. While Dad, a sports journalist, was out to work covering one of those those 3 o'clock's, I was prepared to put up with Mum's accusations that I was like an old man, rooted to the sofa watching, in the main, something I had little interest in, as she hoovered around me and fed me lunch, ideally sliding it into my mouth as if I was brain dead.
The point was I had chosen this lifestyle. Every seven days came freedom and indulgence, in between the anxiety of school and the pressure-cooker of the Sunday League match. Whether Dad had fed me my addiction by taking me to my first game at five and introducing me to Sunday league football at seven, or it was just in the blood, I couldn't think of any better way to spend a Saturday afternoon. The anticipation of the score flash was spine-tingling as I knew when one was coming. The clarity of the screen would suddenly dip, going darker, as if a cloud was hovering over the set. Then the rugby action would be minimised to make way for a square box containing silent news of the goal that had just been scored.
With live games a rarity in those days, there was a special, unique feel to Saturday football. If Arsenal were losing, which seemed to happen often, I would retain hope all the way up to the vidi-printer, which reeled off the full times against the sounds of a type writer. If the Arsenal defeat hadn't been confirmed yet, there was still a chance that it had been rescued, like the Missing in Action notice that hadn't yet become a fatality confirmation. I lived this week in, week out, and looking back, I'm not sure how I survived when the season was over. There was barely any football news in the cricket season, not like now when you don't get the chance to miss it and crave it.
These Saturdays, though I don't feel the outright euphoria of old - the clenched, shaking fists, the barely repressed yells, the (probably) wild eyes and the gritted teeth - and that, in it's place, there is the urgency to get daughter to ballet and then after that, when all three kids are in one place again, the desperation to get us all as far away as from the house as possible, the 'football day' still arrives with a tingle of promise as I wake to a boot in the head from my youngest.
In truth, Sunday is now the big football day, with crucial live drama promised, often accompanied by Europe-instigated fixtures on the schedule. The Yoof don't get my lament. They've grown up with scattered fixtures and ask me what my problem is with the FA Cup Final kicking off at 5.30.
Since starting this post, I have caught up with relatives, and learned that two of my cousins took their sons and nephews to the England-Czech game, with one of the sons loving the occasion so much he wants to go back for one of the September fixtures for his birthday. One of those games is on a Saturday, ideal for the family with no school next day, and will provide the son with much excitement and enjoyment.
And that is essentially what I'm railing against.
Not only - if you're English - does it mean a literally pointless friendly against an opponent bereft of their best players, or a routine qualifying win over a nation that didn't exist 25 years ago, but also a bulldozing of the domestic weekend fixtures, too.
Why must I have a double header of this tripe? Why subject me to Clive Tyldesley twice in four days? I refused to get sucked in, and it was easy not to. ITV's trailer for England's Wembley Euro 2020-qualifying game-that-isn't-the-Nations-League against Czech Republic, had the voice of Tyldesley leading us through the trenches, "Deep breath, here we go again!"
This is exactly how I feel about any game that Tyldesley is commentating on. For instance, England v France, Euro 2004, when just prior to kick off he tell us "You can hold hands if you like".
If there is any consolation for Pay TV-avoiders losing their right to watch any European action, then it is not having to listen to C to the T, as he probably introduces himself. The highlights of the Czech Republic game is there on the ITV Hub, sponsored by pizza, waiting for me to watch, but even if I am intrigued to hear who Tyldesley's new (or latest) co-commentator is in the absence of Glenn Hoddle, who I hope is recovering well from his heart attack, I would be more interested in watching The Real Housewives of Cheshire, and I'm never watching that.
Turning the sound off is an option, yes, which offers too, an authentic taste of the real live atmosphere as well as not having to hear the tedious Three Lions band competing with Tyldesley for most persistently inane backing vocals throughout the night (although the sugar-addled freak behind the Wembley public address system would trump both in the event of a basketball-type score). But then you're essentially watching Raheem Sterling and Harry Palmer, sorry Michael Kane, no Harry Kane, celebrating in silence, and I for one, don't want that.
But unlike Tyldesley, I don't want to be accused of talking on behalf of people ("Where were the Germans...frankly who cares? Nou Camp, 1999), and there will be those who appreciate both his patronising schtick, and the chance to watch their national team humiliate an underdog. It's just that, in the words of Barry Davies, as Great Britain's Hockey team beat West Germany in the 1988 Olympics Final, frankly who cares? Not me.
While these days a weekend without any of the sides in my team's division playing is just really annoying, I don't know how I would have coped with this as a primary school age child. In those times, I was dependant on the hit of a score flash during the Saturday afternoon rugby league match on Grandstand. While Dad, a sports journalist, was out to work covering one of those those 3 o'clock's, I was prepared to put up with Mum's accusations that I was like an old man, rooted to the sofa watching, in the main, something I had little interest in, as she hoovered around me and fed me lunch, ideally sliding it into my mouth as if I was brain dead.
The point was I had chosen this lifestyle. Every seven days came freedom and indulgence, in between the anxiety of school and the pressure-cooker of the Sunday League match. Whether Dad had fed me my addiction by taking me to my first game at five and introducing me to Sunday league football at seven, or it was just in the blood, I couldn't think of any better way to spend a Saturday afternoon. The anticipation of the score flash was spine-tingling as I knew when one was coming. The clarity of the screen would suddenly dip, going darker, as if a cloud was hovering over the set. Then the rugby action would be minimised to make way for a square box containing silent news of the goal that had just been scored.
With live games a rarity in those days, there was a special, unique feel to Saturday football. If Arsenal were losing, which seemed to happen often, I would retain hope all the way up to the vidi-printer, which reeled off the full times against the sounds of a type writer. If the Arsenal defeat hadn't been confirmed yet, there was still a chance that it had been rescued, like the Missing in Action notice that hadn't yet become a fatality confirmation. I lived this week in, week out, and looking back, I'm not sure how I survived when the season was over. There was barely any football news in the cricket season, not like now when you don't get the chance to miss it and crave it.
These Saturdays, though I don't feel the outright euphoria of old - the clenched, shaking fists, the barely repressed yells, the (probably) wild eyes and the gritted teeth - and that, in it's place, there is the urgency to get daughter to ballet and then after that, when all three kids are in one place again, the desperation to get us all as far away as from the house as possible, the 'football day' still arrives with a tingle of promise as I wake to a boot in the head from my youngest.
In truth, Sunday is now the big football day, with crucial live drama promised, often accompanied by Europe-instigated fixtures on the schedule. The Yoof don't get my lament. They've grown up with scattered fixtures and ask me what my problem is with the FA Cup Final kicking off at 5.30.
Since starting this post, I have caught up with relatives, and learned that two of my cousins took their sons and nephews to the England-Czech game, with one of the sons loving the occasion so much he wants to go back for one of the September fixtures for his birthday. One of those games is on a Saturday, ideal for the family with no school next day, and will provide the son with much excitement and enjoyment.
And that is essentially what I'm railing against.
Tuesday, 19 March 2019
A mistreated old favourite draws parallels with the illusion of the Magic of the FA Cup
During the traditional Saturday night FA Cup quarter final between Wolverhampton Wanderers and Manchester United, Beeb co-commentator Martin Keown uttered the phrase "by the way" no less than eight times, four in each half, and six times nonsensically.
I was surprised to find the re-emergence of btw (by the way) after an absence of some years since former Beeb reliable, Mark Lawrenson, made the saying his own. In happier/less scrutinied times, Lawrenson was a mentor to junior pundits like Lee Dixon, before being eventually marginalised for suggesting that some male players should wear skirts and going on about penises live on air, making Gabby Logan blush.
An early btw example of peak Lawrenson might be "Chelsea have got an abundance of quality...and they'll have plenty to spend in the summer, by the way". Impressionable pundos like Dixon, awed by the emphasis present in Lawro's two-point reflection, subtly brought btw into his own game, and in time even hard-headed individuals of the opinion world like Alan Shearer, could be heard concluding an already important view with a btw add-in.
The btw virus quickly spread across the airwaves, even cross-channels, as decipels of the new art like Andy Townsend of ITV began to regularly insert btw's into their analysis, taking advantage of Lawro's schoolboy/girl error in not securing a patent. Townsend took advantage of Lawro's lack of business acumen to liven up the dreary world of Clive Tyldesley internationals from Wembley hosted by Steve Ryder. Dixon, meanwhile, secured a move to ITV after Euro 2012, possibly on the back of his increased btw brilliance, and almost definitely because of being constantly interrupted by Shearer.
Eventually, btw became a victim of the modern game, soon sounding as antiquated and irrelevant as other dying aspects of the game, such as dribbling wingers, two men up front and stadium announcers who read the teams out like adults. Lawrenson's most famous catchphrase was suddenly heading into the abyss with him.
Yet, as many Brexit voters would no doubt be delighted to hear, Keown's use of btw at Molineux symbolised a change back to how things once were...and not just by using a btw, by the way. Keown, sharp eyed as ever, noted that Wolves were playing with two up front, adding that "partnerships are coming back" (just not in the top six). Emboldened, Keown watched one of those Wolves forwards, Diogo Jota, have a shot saved by United reserve goalie, Sergio Romero, and then commented on the action replay, "he could have lifted it over the goalkeeper for me... all credit to the keeper, by the way".
This, though, seemed a confusing use of a btw, a classic case of a simple saying complicated by a human being. Keown did no better when talking all over Jota’s goal late in the game to put the home side 2-0 up.
"Look at his pace, by the way", he urged us, forgetting the fundamentals that the pioneer, Lawro, had put in place all those years ago, and omitting to execute the two-statement approach.
Still, lacking in quality Keown's btw's were, they did at least deflect attention away from some of his other remarks, such as "Wolves are just letting Mancheter United have the ball" (the opposite was true throughout the game, a point Keown later conceded), "VAR would have sorted that out" (fair play to Guy Mowbray for questioning that statement) and "Lukaku's coming into top form" (any newbies to the game who saw the currently injured striker's attempts to score from six yards out at Arsenal the previous week might have considered that avoiding putting the ball in the net was the aim of the game).
Higher standards could be found in the gantry, where Ian Wright only once said "in respects of", while Paul Ince quickly recovered himself after again falling foul to describing his old club as "Manc United". A recent career portrayal of Incey on a streaming channel reminded us of his inability to be able to say "Man" whenever "United" is the next word, and now that he is, like Alan Partridge, back on the BBC after a long absence, would have been reminded of his conduct. Sold abruptly he may have been by the Old Trafford club, the shortened use of "Manc" in the title of his old team might be viewed as inflammatory to fans of the Red Devils up and down the county. While it is endearing to see such a snarling, hateful figure on the pitch wobbling his words out like a frightened rabbit off it, one only has to recall Lawros's penis episode to understand how quickly a star can fall. Luckily, Incey's indiscretion this night came while replayed footage of Jota’s saved shot was being shown, enabling Gary Lineker to hastily hold up a placard with the words "Manchester United" on it. After this, Incey referred to them only as "Manchester United". He even went on to make a joke about Brexit, which visibly drew a moment of panic and self-doubt from Shearer.
Fair play to the Beeb for addressing this skill gap where other institutions fail to educate their staff. When - oh when! - for instance, will Pep Guardiola of Manc City be made aware that his star wanes ever more by insisting that the opposition had "only one shoot" on goal. I'm sure he'd like to be corrected, as I understand he's quite keen on details.
Elsewhere in the Cup, VAR was also shotting itself in the foot by not being in the right place at the right time to prod the referee, like a pizza flyer to a cupboard-bare family, and show that at Swansea, Sergio Aguero was in an offside place, minutes after Raheem Sterling was in a morally bankrupt place to turn the tide against Championship opponents and progress to the semi finals. That very championship status of Swansea's was the reason VAR wasn't in the building, as clubs below the Prem are unworthy of it's attention. While VAR was busy overturning an arguable red card at Molineux, at least one clear and obvious error was allowed to breathe at The Liberty Stadium. After years of moaning about "inconsistency" blighting the game, it's apparent solution seems to be actively promoting it.
But who are we to judge? VAR is the new ruler in town, cowardly and unseen and expensive and shiny and new, as opposed to The Ref, middle aged and cheap and visible to a baying crowd. The Ref, or at least almost all of his/her's authority is dying out, all because, as we are told, "there's some much money involved now/"the stakes are so high"/"football is a business", and to that end we must not allow any errors to be tolerated, even if sometimes crowds and matches are galvanised by injustice and having to fight adversity, and that sport, like life, isn't perfect, by the way.
I was surprised to find the re-emergence of btw (by the way) after an absence of some years since former Beeb reliable, Mark Lawrenson, made the saying his own. In happier/less scrutinied times, Lawrenson was a mentor to junior pundits like Lee Dixon, before being eventually marginalised for suggesting that some male players should wear skirts and going on about penises live on air, making Gabby Logan blush.
An early btw example of peak Lawrenson might be "Chelsea have got an abundance of quality...and they'll have plenty to spend in the summer, by the way". Impressionable pundos like Dixon, awed by the emphasis present in Lawro's two-point reflection, subtly brought btw into his own game, and in time even hard-headed individuals of the opinion world like Alan Shearer, could be heard concluding an already important view with a btw add-in.
The btw virus quickly spread across the airwaves, even cross-channels, as decipels of the new art like Andy Townsend of ITV began to regularly insert btw's into their analysis, taking advantage of Lawro's schoolboy/girl error in not securing a patent. Townsend took advantage of Lawro's lack of business acumen to liven up the dreary world of Clive Tyldesley internationals from Wembley hosted by Steve Ryder. Dixon, meanwhile, secured a move to ITV after Euro 2012, possibly on the back of his increased btw brilliance, and almost definitely because of being constantly interrupted by Shearer.
Eventually, btw became a victim of the modern game, soon sounding as antiquated and irrelevant as other dying aspects of the game, such as dribbling wingers, two men up front and stadium announcers who read the teams out like adults. Lawrenson's most famous catchphrase was suddenly heading into the abyss with him.
Yet, as many Brexit voters would no doubt be delighted to hear, Keown's use of btw at Molineux symbolised a change back to how things once were...and not just by using a btw, by the way. Keown, sharp eyed as ever, noted that Wolves were playing with two up front, adding that "partnerships are coming back" (just not in the top six). Emboldened, Keown watched one of those Wolves forwards, Diogo Jota, have a shot saved by United reserve goalie, Sergio Romero, and then commented on the action replay, "he could have lifted it over the goalkeeper for me... all credit to the keeper, by the way".
This, though, seemed a confusing use of a btw, a classic case of a simple saying complicated by a human being. Keown did no better when talking all over Jota’s goal late in the game to put the home side 2-0 up.
"Look at his pace, by the way", he urged us, forgetting the fundamentals that the pioneer, Lawro, had put in place all those years ago, and omitting to execute the two-statement approach.
Still, lacking in quality Keown's btw's were, they did at least deflect attention away from some of his other remarks, such as "Wolves are just letting Mancheter United have the ball" (the opposite was true throughout the game, a point Keown later conceded), "VAR would have sorted that out" (fair play to Guy Mowbray for questioning that statement) and "Lukaku's coming into top form" (any newbies to the game who saw the currently injured striker's attempts to score from six yards out at Arsenal the previous week might have considered that avoiding putting the ball in the net was the aim of the game).
Higher standards could be found in the gantry, where Ian Wright only once said "in respects of", while Paul Ince quickly recovered himself after again falling foul to describing his old club as "Manc United". A recent career portrayal of Incey on a streaming channel reminded us of his inability to be able to say "Man" whenever "United" is the next word, and now that he is, like Alan Partridge, back on the BBC after a long absence, would have been reminded of his conduct. Sold abruptly he may have been by the Old Trafford club, the shortened use of "Manc" in the title of his old team might be viewed as inflammatory to fans of the Red Devils up and down the county. While it is endearing to see such a snarling, hateful figure on the pitch wobbling his words out like a frightened rabbit off it, one only has to recall Lawros's penis episode to understand how quickly a star can fall. Luckily, Incey's indiscretion this night came while replayed footage of Jota’s saved shot was being shown, enabling Gary Lineker to hastily hold up a placard with the words "Manchester United" on it. After this, Incey referred to them only as "Manchester United". He even went on to make a joke about Brexit, which visibly drew a moment of panic and self-doubt from Shearer.
Fair play to the Beeb for addressing this skill gap where other institutions fail to educate their staff. When - oh when! - for instance, will Pep Guardiola of Manc City be made aware that his star wanes ever more by insisting that the opposition had "only one shoot" on goal. I'm sure he'd like to be corrected, as I understand he's quite keen on details.
Elsewhere in the Cup, VAR was also shotting itself in the foot by not being in the right place at the right time to prod the referee, like a pizza flyer to a cupboard-bare family, and show that at Swansea, Sergio Aguero was in an offside place, minutes after Raheem Sterling was in a morally bankrupt place to turn the tide against Championship opponents and progress to the semi finals. That very championship status of Swansea's was the reason VAR wasn't in the building, as clubs below the Prem are unworthy of it's attention. While VAR was busy overturning an arguable red card at Molineux, at least one clear and obvious error was allowed to breathe at The Liberty Stadium. After years of moaning about "inconsistency" blighting the game, it's apparent solution seems to be actively promoting it.
But who are we to judge? VAR is the new ruler in town, cowardly and unseen and expensive and shiny and new, as opposed to The Ref, middle aged and cheap and visible to a baying crowd. The Ref, or at least almost all of his/her's authority is dying out, all because, as we are told, "there's some much money involved now/"the stakes are so high"/"football is a business", and to that end we must not allow any errors to be tolerated, even if sometimes crowds and matches are galvanised by injustice and having to fight adversity, and that sport, like life, isn't perfect, by the way.
Sunday, 10 March 2019
The return of Brendan's Hollywood smile amid the rise of the secret showbiz football managers
So Brendan's back in the Premier League, here once again to tell us in his sexy, Irish croak how one day he'll save the world with his super-tactics, even if, by God, he'll have to sacrifice his principles of loyalty to do it.
During Rodgers' lively spell at Liverpool, some people cruelly dubbed him "Brenton" for his unyielding thirst for self-promotion, like fellow tie-smoothing boss, David Brent. Rodgers even starred in his own sitcom, Being Liverpool, where the new man in charge turned team talks into raps (all shoulder-dips and shimmies as he lays down the vocals) and, in a pre-season address, showed the squad an envelope that contained the name of a player in the room that he said would ultimately let the club down. This scene took a couple of takes as Brendan's first envelope-wagging moment resulted in a piece of paper falling out that depicted an unknown artist's impression of him frolicking with livestock in his previous residence of Swansea. Raheem Sterling was said to have been initially scapegoated for this, only for substantial evidence to eventually point to Brendan's best mate and assistant, Colin Pascoe, who was subsequently the subject of a mock sacking via a telephone, which Rodgers spoke into knowing he'd dialled the wrong numbers.
In Rodgers defence, he is at least a real person, and interesting though the Brent resemblance is, his authentic existence as Rodgers goes against the grain of a growing trend of Prem managers who may not be what they seem. I will start with the man Rodgers succeeds at Leicester City, Claude Puel - or at least, that is the name given to him... In the same way that Clark Kent fooled swathes of the American public, and indeed even his closest co-workers, with his canny use of thick-rimmed lenses to avoid assumptions about him actually being Superman, the creators of Claude Puel seemed to expect that we would be tricked by a similarly limp disguise; however, it soon became apparent to most observers that the person fronting up to the tv cameras in that humourless manner was actually the acclaimed Hollywood actor Ben Stiller doing a borderline racist comedy accent.
Stiller/Puel's appointment at The King Power Stadium may seem an oddity, but there had of course been talk, following Leicester's more-improbable-with-every-passing-year title win in 2015-16, about fairytales and films, and in these days when people say that the business model is more important than the football itself, perhaps the temptation to get Stiller/Puel on board to really pull off that role and target a box office smash, was too much to resist.
Maybe that's one explanation, but it doesn't really satisfy question marks over mis-casting. After all, real manager of Leicester's against-the-odds triumph, Claudio Ranieri, had a much better facial fit in popular camp thespian, John Inman. Sadly, Inman was dead eight years by the time Ranieri was lifting the Prem trophy, which possibly explains the delay in the project - and Craig Shakespeare - until 'Puel' could be discovered.
On-the-money football fans will know that 'Puel' had already been in production at fellow Premier League outfit, Southampton in 2016-17 - the very season after Leicester's title-winning campaign - where astonishing research of the manager's role took his team to the heights of a League Cup Final, only for him to be sacked, mysteriously it seemed at the time, at the end of that debut campaign. There were, though, suspicions that Stiller couldn't combine both the Southampton job and contractual obligations to Brad's Status, The Meyerowitz Stories (New and Selected) and Play Dodgeball with Ben Stiller.
Yet, this wasn't the first time Southampton had fired or hired a man more accustomed to delivering lines on television or stage. In January 2013, bonafide football manager, Nigel Adkins, who'd led the club to two successive promotions in returning to the Premier League, and had just overseen a two-goal fightback at Stamford Bridge, was unexpectedly replaced by fully paid-up cockney, Danny Dyer. Masquerading under the pseudonym, Mauricio Pochettino, Dyer opened the way for the likes of Stiller/Puel with heavy reliance on an exaggerated foreign accent.
Wise not to expose his professional East End patter to a public that widely sympathised with Adkins, Dyer took an even more pragmatic approach than Stiller/Puel, and conducted post match interviews in his 'native' language, accompanied by a 'translator' who, according to an insider, was actually some bloke off the street who'd been threatened with a "slashed boat race" if he didn't do what was
he was told.
Like Stiller/Puel, Dyer threw himself into his new role and soon won over the fans with a hard-running, hard-pressing style adapted from his portrayal of top boy hooligan, Tommy Johnson, in the film version of Football Factory (2004). Dyer can now be seen at the helm of London's Tottenham Hotspur, where he has rented out a short-to-medium tenancy on a top four residence and has relaxed into a limited use of the English language ('translator' bumped off out the back of a van and into the sea). With demand for his services at an all time peak, Dyer is careful not to slip into Ossie Ardiles mode during appearances on comedy panel shows, or in his now regular spot in East Enders as barman, Mick Carter, while avoiding going full 'apples and pears' in the dressing room on matchday.
As for Southampton's current boss, well, after unsuccessful appointments with qualified coaches Mauricio Pellegrino (not to be confused with 'Mauricio Pochettino'/Danny Dyer) and Mark Hughes, the Saints went back this season to their tried and trusted method of going for someone from the big screen, landing the haunted, booming-voiced Englishman David Morrisey, playing the role of Ralph Hassnhuttl of Austria. At the time of writing, Morrisey/Hasenhuttl is making a decent stab of clearing up the mess made by his likeable and unlikeable - respectively - predecessors.
So, in reversing the trend of footballers turning to acting (Vinny Jones, Stan Collymore, Eric Cantona - both Collymore and Morrisey appeared in the critically panned Basic Instinct sequel, Basic Instinct 2, and it is believed that the pair struck up a friendship on set, offering each other advice on their specialist professions), Southampton have hit upon a management philosophy that clearly works for them. In a somewhat ironic twist, Ranieri was sacked by Fulham this month following an away defeat to Morrisey/Hasenhuttl's Southampton, effectively put out of a job at the hands of Southampton just as Stiller/Puel, the man/men entrusted to play the Italian on screen were.
As Stiller himself might reflect, There's Something about St Mary's.
During Rodgers' lively spell at Liverpool, some people cruelly dubbed him "Brenton" for his unyielding thirst for self-promotion, like fellow tie-smoothing boss, David Brent. Rodgers even starred in his own sitcom, Being Liverpool, where the new man in charge turned team talks into raps (all shoulder-dips and shimmies as he lays down the vocals) and, in a pre-season address, showed the squad an envelope that contained the name of a player in the room that he said would ultimately let the club down. This scene took a couple of takes as Brendan's first envelope-wagging moment resulted in a piece of paper falling out that depicted an unknown artist's impression of him frolicking with livestock in his previous residence of Swansea. Raheem Sterling was said to have been initially scapegoated for this, only for substantial evidence to eventually point to Brendan's best mate and assistant, Colin Pascoe, who was subsequently the subject of a mock sacking via a telephone, which Rodgers spoke into knowing he'd dialled the wrong numbers.
In Rodgers defence, he is at least a real person, and interesting though the Brent resemblance is, his authentic existence as Rodgers goes against the grain of a growing trend of Prem managers who may not be what they seem. I will start with the man Rodgers succeeds at Leicester City, Claude Puel - or at least, that is the name given to him... In the same way that Clark Kent fooled swathes of the American public, and indeed even his closest co-workers, with his canny use of thick-rimmed lenses to avoid assumptions about him actually being Superman, the creators of Claude Puel seemed to expect that we would be tricked by a similarly limp disguise; however, it soon became apparent to most observers that the person fronting up to the tv cameras in that humourless manner was actually the acclaimed Hollywood actor Ben Stiller doing a borderline racist comedy accent.
Stiller/Puel's appointment at The King Power Stadium may seem an oddity, but there had of course been talk, following Leicester's more-improbable-with-every-passing-year title win in 2015-16, about fairytales and films, and in these days when people say that the business model is more important than the football itself, perhaps the temptation to get Stiller/Puel on board to really pull off that role and target a box office smash, was too much to resist.
Maybe that's one explanation, but it doesn't really satisfy question marks over mis-casting. After all, real manager of Leicester's against-the-odds triumph, Claudio Ranieri, had a much better facial fit in popular camp thespian, John Inman. Sadly, Inman was dead eight years by the time Ranieri was lifting the Prem trophy, which possibly explains the delay in the project - and Craig Shakespeare - until 'Puel' could be discovered.
On-the-money football fans will know that 'Puel' had already been in production at fellow Premier League outfit, Southampton in 2016-17 - the very season after Leicester's title-winning campaign - where astonishing research of the manager's role took his team to the heights of a League Cup Final, only for him to be sacked, mysteriously it seemed at the time, at the end of that debut campaign. There were, though, suspicions that Stiller couldn't combine both the Southampton job and contractual obligations to Brad's Status, The Meyerowitz Stories (New and Selected) and Play Dodgeball with Ben Stiller.
Yet, this wasn't the first time Southampton had fired or hired a man more accustomed to delivering lines on television or stage. In January 2013, bonafide football manager, Nigel Adkins, who'd led the club to two successive promotions in returning to the Premier League, and had just overseen a two-goal fightback at Stamford Bridge, was unexpectedly replaced by fully paid-up cockney, Danny Dyer. Masquerading under the pseudonym, Mauricio Pochettino, Dyer opened the way for the likes of Stiller/Puel with heavy reliance on an exaggerated foreign accent.
Wise not to expose his professional East End patter to a public that widely sympathised with Adkins, Dyer took an even more pragmatic approach than Stiller/Puel, and conducted post match interviews in his 'native' language, accompanied by a 'translator' who, according to an insider, was actually some bloke off the street who'd been threatened with a "slashed boat race" if he didn't do what was
he was told.
Like Stiller/Puel, Dyer threw himself into his new role and soon won over the fans with a hard-running, hard-pressing style adapted from his portrayal of top boy hooligan, Tommy Johnson, in the film version of Football Factory (2004). Dyer can now be seen at the helm of London's Tottenham Hotspur, where he has rented out a short-to-medium tenancy on a top four residence and has relaxed into a limited use of the English language ('translator' bumped off out the back of a van and into the sea). With demand for his services at an all time peak, Dyer is careful not to slip into Ossie Ardiles mode during appearances on comedy panel shows, or in his now regular spot in East Enders as barman, Mick Carter, while avoiding going full 'apples and pears' in the dressing room on matchday.
As for Southampton's current boss, well, after unsuccessful appointments with qualified coaches Mauricio Pellegrino (not to be confused with 'Mauricio Pochettino'/Danny Dyer) and Mark Hughes, the Saints went back this season to their tried and trusted method of going for someone from the big screen, landing the haunted, booming-voiced Englishman David Morrisey, playing the role of Ralph Hassnhuttl of Austria. At the time of writing, Morrisey/Hasenhuttl is making a decent stab of clearing up the mess made by his likeable and unlikeable - respectively - predecessors.
So, in reversing the trend of footballers turning to acting (Vinny Jones, Stan Collymore, Eric Cantona - both Collymore and Morrisey appeared in the critically panned Basic Instinct sequel, Basic Instinct 2, and it is believed that the pair struck up a friendship on set, offering each other advice on their specialist professions), Southampton have hit upon a management philosophy that clearly works for them. In a somewhat ironic twist, Ranieri was sacked by Fulham this month following an away defeat to Morrisey/Hasenhuttl's Southampton, effectively put out of a job at the hands of Southampton just as Stiller/Puel, the man/men entrusted to play the Italian on screen were.
As Stiller himself might reflect, There's Something about St Mary's.
Saturday, 2 March 2019
My final World Cup 2018 round up (subject to a VAR check)
Just a few more observations and then we're done. Makes it sound like a medical check up, and I guess some of you (and there are some of you, believe it or not), have experienced some discomfort during these posts, but at least this leads me nicely onto my next section of World Cup 2018 contributors...
PUNDITS
Defenders of the 80's, 90's and 2000's always knew they would be in for a bruising, awkward encounter with Alan Shearer on the pitch, and while those players still nurse wounded pride and cheekbones, it is now the members of the watching public who go into live BBC broadcasts fearing the worst. This summer showcased all of Shearer's post-playing attributes in the television studio. The pace and the hair might have gone, but the confidence remains undimmed, as he set about his fellow pundits with due disrespect, only Didier Drogba escaping an interrupted viewpoint, due to an analytical approach comprising of no more than five words. During the semi Final, Gary Lineker asked Jurgen Klinsmann how you could stop Kylian Mpbappe, only for the German to ramble on for a number of seconds, before Shearer glanced at Lineker, possibly unsighted, and then dictated a new conversation with Rio Ferdinand. Shearer should, though, be careful when doing this to Jurgen, who has a history of exacting revenge on those who have crossed him during last four matches.
As much as I love Ian Wright, he has to stop saying "in respects of", in respect of using incorrect grammar. Clearly no one is saying anything about it on the Beeb, and it seems that ITV aren't that bothered either during his contracted stint for international tournaments. Ever a patriot, I felt he betrayed me when becoming so emotionally involved in an England team that had some many Spurs in it. I can forgive him because of all the goals he scored against Tottenham, although I'm not sure his mocking of Roy Keane's accent during the 3rd/4th play off coverage of England-Belgium, should be so easily overlooked!
Cesc Fabregas, (BBC), played the role of sensible, lucid European, like previous incumbents such as Roberto Martinez and Gianluca Vialli, though Henrik Larsson and Patrice Evra (both ITV) attracted unwanted attention by putting, respectively, a gold star and a patronising comment in the textbook of Eni Aluko. Evra became the fall guy by choosing to applaud Aluko's research on Costa Rica, responding (sarcastically?) to Larsson's nodding praise. Larsson's behaviour was even more odd considering he himself was on the end of similar attitudes at the USA 94 World Cup, when opponents allowed him to score four goals, having believed there was no need to waste time tackling the skinny kid with long dreadlocks and a hairband who was clearly only playing thanks to some mixed gender initiative that American authorities continue to be famous for.
Rio Ferdinand couldn't be accused of sitting on the fence this summer. For one, he was sitting on a chair, and in that chair, he called Belgium "the team to beat" after their quarter final win over Brazil, claimed "we will beat Croatia" in the same broadcast and suggested that fans at Premier League games should add cleaning the stadium to their other duties of creating the atmosphere, keeping pay per view broadcasters (such as his own employers, BT Sport) in business and paying sums beyond £150 a game for the privilege. In hindsight, though, I suspect all these opinions were part of a revival of his legendary 2006 'Rio's Word Cup Wind Ups" production, where unsuspecting members of England's World Cup squad were merked.
Other Things of Interest...
Why were the bookings of players announced over the public address system?
Why were interviews with the England representatives, though mainly Southgate and Kane, all taken place in the same gloomy little room, pre-recorded? Where was the spirit of 98, with the players shoehorning titles of pop songs into their answers live on air to a backdrop of deckchairs and swimming pool? "It's not exactly Club Tropicana, Bob!" was Southgate's offering in France, which uncharacteristically didn't show much "imagination", the title Shearer signed off with, when the game was finally rumbled by Ray Stubbs.
Where were the Germans? Partying like it was 1945?
Ah, nothing like an outdated, offensive and dividing remark to sign off with. Qualifying myself for Qatar 2022, perhaps?
PUNDITS
Defenders of the 80's, 90's and 2000's always knew they would be in for a bruising, awkward encounter with Alan Shearer on the pitch, and while those players still nurse wounded pride and cheekbones, it is now the members of the watching public who go into live BBC broadcasts fearing the worst. This summer showcased all of Shearer's post-playing attributes in the television studio. The pace and the hair might have gone, but the confidence remains undimmed, as he set about his fellow pundits with due disrespect, only Didier Drogba escaping an interrupted viewpoint, due to an analytical approach comprising of no more than five words. During the semi Final, Gary Lineker asked Jurgen Klinsmann how you could stop Kylian Mpbappe, only for the German to ramble on for a number of seconds, before Shearer glanced at Lineker, possibly unsighted, and then dictated a new conversation with Rio Ferdinand. Shearer should, though, be careful when doing this to Jurgen, who has a history of exacting revenge on those who have crossed him during last four matches.
As much as I love Ian Wright, he has to stop saying "in respects of", in respect of using incorrect grammar. Clearly no one is saying anything about it on the Beeb, and it seems that ITV aren't that bothered either during his contracted stint for international tournaments. Ever a patriot, I felt he betrayed me when becoming so emotionally involved in an England team that had some many Spurs in it. I can forgive him because of all the goals he scored against Tottenham, although I'm not sure his mocking of Roy Keane's accent during the 3rd/4th play off coverage of England-Belgium, should be so easily overlooked!
Cesc Fabregas, (BBC), played the role of sensible, lucid European, like previous incumbents such as Roberto Martinez and Gianluca Vialli, though Henrik Larsson and Patrice Evra (both ITV) attracted unwanted attention by putting, respectively, a gold star and a patronising comment in the textbook of Eni Aluko. Evra became the fall guy by choosing to applaud Aluko's research on Costa Rica, responding (sarcastically?) to Larsson's nodding praise. Larsson's behaviour was even more odd considering he himself was on the end of similar attitudes at the USA 94 World Cup, when opponents allowed him to score four goals, having believed there was no need to waste time tackling the skinny kid with long dreadlocks and a hairband who was clearly only playing thanks to some mixed gender initiative that American authorities continue to be famous for.
Rio Ferdinand couldn't be accused of sitting on the fence this summer. For one, he was sitting on a chair, and in that chair, he called Belgium "the team to beat" after their quarter final win over Brazil, claimed "we will beat Croatia" in the same broadcast and suggested that fans at Premier League games should add cleaning the stadium to their other duties of creating the atmosphere, keeping pay per view broadcasters (such as his own employers, BT Sport) in business and paying sums beyond £150 a game for the privilege. In hindsight, though, I suspect all these opinions were part of a revival of his legendary 2006 'Rio's Word Cup Wind Ups" production, where unsuspecting members of England's World Cup squad were merked.
Other Things of Interest...
Why were the bookings of players announced over the public address system?
Why were interviews with the England representatives, though mainly Southgate and Kane, all taken place in the same gloomy little room, pre-recorded? Where was the spirit of 98, with the players shoehorning titles of pop songs into their answers live on air to a backdrop of deckchairs and swimming pool? "It's not exactly Club Tropicana, Bob!" was Southgate's offering in France, which uncharacteristically didn't show much "imagination", the title Shearer signed off with, when the game was finally rumbled by Ray Stubbs.
Where were the Germans? Partying like it was 1945?
Ah, nothing like an outdated, offensive and dividing remark to sign off with. Qualifying myself for Qatar 2022, perhaps?
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