Miserable Morrissey haunted by tragic past as FA Cup excitement threatens

Southampton manager David Morrissey today slammed striker Sofiane Boufal for his equalising goal at home to Tottenham (Saturday 25/01/2020) that condemned his side to a catastrophic FA Cup Fourth Round replay.

A disgusted Morrissey, whose sense of fun has, according to friends, been largely absent since being overlooked for the starring role on Doctor Who in 2013, groaned that "flights have been cancelled" for the club's eagerly anticipated warm weather training break, mumbling bitterly "now we have to go there [The Tottenham Hotspur Stadium}".

Moaned Morrissey, ‘This goal by Sofiane - only his second in 18 f***ing months by the way - does nothing to help us finish between 14th-17th in the Premier League, and I'll be reminding him of his responsibilities to the fans. If you asked them what would they prefer, a chance of getting to Wembley in this "FA Cup" or consolidation as a lower-table established Premier League team, I think there would be only one answer.’

When pressed on the joy that the club's 1976 FA Cup Final win over Manchester United gave the Southampton supporters, Morrissey was prosaic. ‘If things had turned out differently, I could have gone back in time and done something about that: I'd have looked every one of those celebrating fans in the eye and lectured them out of the fun they seemed to think they were having. Sometimes fans don't understand the game and need to be educated. Arseholes!’

Pushed on the wisdom of dubbing the club's supporters "arseholes", Morrissey nearly lost control of his passive-aggression.

‘The BBC!", he said through gritted teeth. ‘I mean the BBC! They picked Capaldi didn't they?!’

Although Morrissey  - real name Ralph Hasenhuttl - insists that his club's Premier League drudgery has to be protected, sources close to the club believe that Cup replays remind him of sequels, and that he is still scarred by the memory of his role in Basic Instinct 2: Risk Addiction, the 2006 follow up to the 1992 original. While Paul Verhoeven's first offering provided a Box Office smash and worldwide acclaim for Sharon Stone, the second was made without Verhoeven and casted Stan Collymore. Morrissey has remained quiet on his involvement in the universally panned BA2:RA, but rumours persist that privately he felt duped by the whole affair, believing that the appearances of Collymore and an 'S Stone' made for an interesting film project on Nottingham Forest in the 90's. Morrissey understood that he was to be cast as Frank Clark, but instead played a sex therapist driven literally mad by his lust for Stone (Sharon), who'd already seen off Collymore in the opening scene (some film goers suggesting that the ex forward's demise after two minutes was barely longer than his career at Bradford City).

Associates of Morrissey ask for respect and privacy at this difficult time, while understanding that during the replay they are powerless to prevent a cigarette-smoking Jose Mourinho repeatedly uncrossing his legs from the dugout.
Morrissey in happier times.   

We Want Our Football Back! Freedom of Movement Forever! A nation brought together by petty VAR bureauprats?

"Let the healing begin", said the newly elected Prime Minister of England on December 14th. Quite how this is expected to go hasn't been clarified, although Eileen Drewery has ruled herself out of leading any task force on the matter. 

The PM may wish to follow the lead of new Arsenal manager Mikel Arteta who, faced with a similarly impossible mandate, concentrated on "quick wins". Tory PM advisors, reliably adept at analysing the metaphorical direction of aerial activity, may turn their attention to a topical gale sweeping through the world of football, where the totalitarian VAR regime is meeting varied and increasing hostility, threatening even to bring The People together.

"I'd never felt as close to the nation as when I logged on to BBC Sport online and witnessed the scale of disgust from so many betrayed people" said Pam Deenamu of the general public.

Fay lee Dintits from A Clear Headspace beamed "The hatred and vitriol for VAR has united my home town in a way not seen since the council suggested three-weekly bin collections".

An Arsenal fan added, "Even us Gooners thought Tottenham's disallowed goal at Leicester was a sick joke. I mean, Son's nipple putting him offside? But then came Lundstram's big toe at White Hart Lane, and then the ancient discovery of Chambers' foul at The Emirates. Not to mention the Grealish heel at Burnley, or the Pukki Goal of The Month reduced to ashes...eventually. And don't get me started on Firmino's thigh bone..."

Meanwhile, John Gow from Lytham, tweeted "Vaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrghhhhhh!!!"

The outpouring of despair is a blow for VAR who had banked on universal acclaim by now, expecting to have reduced assistant referees (apart from the indestructible Sian Massey, an example to us all) to gibbering wrecks living in fear of being found guilty of applying the spirit of the game. Jonjo Shelvey's delayed goal for Newcastle United at Bramall Lane and Dan Gosling's belated lobbed winner for Bournemouth at Chelsea in the November round of midweek Premier League fixtures had VAR rubbing it's hands with glee at the sight of their masterplan being well on track. Both efforts were flagged offside despite the players' in question being almost in their own half when they steered their respective shots in. This then allowed the all-knowing, step-aside Madam VAR to enter stage left and come to the rescue.

Ironically though, the very public who seemed to want the technology (the instant a refereeing decision went against their team) have not developed into the grateful peasants as hoped. The chant "It's not football anymore!" is believed to have originated at Bramall Lane, but was also heard at Turf Moor on New Year's Day by both visiting Aston Villa fans and home Burnley fans while the Grealish heel goal was being dissected.

The attitude of those Burnley fans, sacrificing their own fortune for the greater good, may be an unusual concept for the serving government of the day, but the online slaughter of VAR, preceded by a (Grealish) Heel (sic) The Country slogan near you may well become an un-reviewed reality.          

Opinion Piece: Uncared for ex Tottenham players roll up to the Five Live retirement home

Happy New Year!

Some people like to begin their resolutions in earnest, beginning the new year, new decade, in positive form. It may not last but it's the effort that counts. Well done to all of you with that attitude.

Me - I'm going to moan about the number of mediocre former Spurs players in the media!

On New Year's Day itself, largely forgotten White Hart Lane turf-treader Andy Reid (yes, you remember, also played for Nottingham Forest, bit tubby for a footballer, little chap, dark hair, played on the wing...no, not Jose Dominguez, but made almost the same kind of impact) was among a panel of Five Live "experts" (Dion Dublin was also classified as one of these) discussing the topical points of the day, presented by Steve Crossman, who is obliged to ask the questions.

In fairness to Reid he isn't annoying, merely a voice over the airwaves that follows the main commentator, just his Irishness standing him out from the crowd of dull observers. His approach, unsurprisingly, is less combative than his colleague Michael Brown, also from the same era of mid-2000's Tottenham Coldspur. Brown scored 22 goals in the Championship for Sheffield united in 2002-03, and I was a little worried when he joined Spurs, but oddly he performed in David Pleat and Martin Jol's teams as a fouling midfielder in the David Howells mould. Leaving Tottenham two years later to literally scrap for a middling career in the Premier League with Wigan and Portsmouth, Brown returned to the top flight a couple of years ago to bless listeners to the world service with his priceless experience of trophy-hunting (lost 1-0 to Chelsea in 2009 FA Cup Final).

Another underwhelming lilywhite from the time, Jermaine Jenas, took the bold step of indulging in title talk as a Match of The Day pundit, insisting during the "business end" of 2015-16 that Leicester City "will feel the nerves" at the top of the table, while his former North London employers hung on to their coat-tails. My research team tell me that across his six seasons as a Spurs player, JJ finished 6th, 5th, 11th, 8th, 4th and 5th in the Premier League, so to come to his title-race conclusion he presumably called upon personal memories from the Sunday League or on Championship Manager.

Jenas's MOTD pal, Danny Murphy, hails from the same Tottenham Hotspur period of insignificance, but both men over the last few seasons have regularly commentated on a period of The Lane history that is far more respectable than theirs. Murphy did enjoy a successful spell at his home club Liverpool, but none of the others I've mentioned would have got anywhere near Mauricio Pochettino's sides. New Spurs boss, Jose Mourinho, might possibly have considered Brown as an option, but then more probably would have thought better of it, even when looking at Eric Dier.

There are more celebrated Tottenhams in the media - Hoddle, Waddle, Lineker - and their positions aren't questioned (by me anyway) though I guess that the Five Live factory of average players from average Tottenham teams (granted, Jenas won caps for England, but can anyone other than him remember the matches in question?) taking up the mic just goes to show how difficult it is these days to break into pub ownership or mini-cabbing.

Antony Gardner, we are expecting you!     

   Andy Reid (left) - not to be confused with Jose Dominguez (below).                                                                                                              

Respect your juniors

So the day has come.

The day that, at the time of appointment, Arsenal's manager is younger than me.

Mikel Arteta, 37, is six years my junior. Maybe I hoped that this outcome would, one day, be softened by a sympathetic tap on the shoulder, and a resigned appreciation that my time was up, but no, it's like something out of the Adam Sandler film, Flick, when life can be literally fast-forwarded by a magic remote control.

The first Arsenal manager I knew, Terry Neill, was 34 when he was appointed, 38 when I was aware he who actually was, but I was 4 then. When he was sacked, his replacement Don Howe seemed about 103 at the time, when I looked up to him and had all my desperate, flawed hopes in his ability to make a winning team out of prima donnas and has-beens. George Graham came in at 41, but it's impossible that I will ever be older than he was then, even though I am now 44 (just had to retype there, as I thought I was 43 for the last five minutes; age is clearly only bringing me increased incapability rather than an aura of authority and commanding of respect. Just ask the kids).

'George Knows' used to be a banner at Highbury, a precursor to 'Arsene Knows' (Bruce Rioch never got much of an opportunity to know, nor Unai Emery, who at 46 when he became Arsene's successor, seemed to suggest that my 40 year run in some kind of numbered state of self-respecting hero-worship would continue for a while yet).  George was hard-line, a disciplinarian, an achiever, clearing out the dead wood and bringing in the trophies. By contrast, I am laughed in the face when attempting to get the kids asleep by 9pm, and ignored daily in my (admittedly hypocritical) lights-off agenda. I am powerless to prevent their multiple nighttime returns from the bedroom asking for water/something to eat/comfort/a story/nine rounds of Black Jack. I lost the dressing room years ago, and there's no option to sell one of the troublemakers and bring in a more compliant version.

Prominent people during Arsene's era say that he didn't like confrontation, but that can't be true, can it? Can you manage an unbeaten team for a whole season while letting your players call you a bitch in front of everyone?  Can't see it. Even if Wenger is as awkward as I am in asking for the bill from the restaurant staff - wracked with worry over any offence that might be caused in signalling my intention to leave the premises shortly (the missus' does a disturbing impression of my apparently crazed facial features in these moments, when I subconsciously try to ward off the perceived hatred from the chosen waiter or waitress), his assured grasp of several languages, economics degree and, oh, career full of trophies, gives him a decisive edge over me in terms of achievement and adult-worthiness.

So Mikel, perhaps I should prepare to look down on you from my elder statesmen perch, call you a "silly boy" when you get it wrong, shake my head in disdain at the juvenile decisions you make. But I haven't reached that stage yet, and am not sure I ever will. When I was a player manager at 31, of a Sunday pub team, we had a team night out in Watford, which ended with me being sick on the minibus back and offerings to be escorted home by two of my players who were aged 18 and 21. I don't know that I'll ever be that sort of man who exudes assurance and knowing. Even calling myself a man seems uncomfortable.

I'll support Mikel, aware of the fact he is younger than me, but knowing, in my heart, that the Arsenal manager will always will be a senior in life.         

The agony of Fantasy Football terms and conditions

I really let myself down on Monday night (Nov 25th).

Arguably I'd let myself down a number of times throughout the day - snoozing in the bath first thing in the morning when I should have been powering through this first task of the day to help get the kids to school on time; forgetting to take my shoes to change into at work and ending up wearing trainers with shirt and trousers; picking up a can of fizzy drink on the way home that I didn't need or truthfully enjoyed - succeeding only in bringing forward the inevitable unarranged overdraft alert text that seems to be arriving earlier and earlier after pay day.

But all these things paled into insignificance around 9:40 that night, when I Joined The Debate.

BBC Sport are forever getting you to Join The Debate, and though I've maintained enough pride to resist calling up the modern day version of 606 (Contrary to perceived wisdom, 606 did actually exist before the Premier League, and much like Division One, Danny Baker's variation was superior in my humble), I succumbed to the live internet feed of Aston Villa versus Newcastle United. In my defence, I didn't directly Join The Debate, like I nearly did on TalkSport FM the day Andy Gray was exposed by Sky for dubious 'off-air' bantz with female staff members (Gender specific sexual misconduct did actually exist before #MeToo) and would have tarred my reputation for good had I stayed on the line. No, my text remark during AVFC v NUFC was aimed at the chap running the live feed, in short requesting that he refrain from using the term "on comms", a la Dion Dublin, when referring to the radio commentary on Five Live.

My text sadly contained a spelling mistake, which prompted my follow up text sheepishly mocking my qualification to judge. My misery was compounded at around 9:47 when the chap running the feed referred to "on comms" again, clearly to wind me up. I congratulated him on this mickey-taking and left it there, hoping at least that I'd triggered a spot of self-analysis on his part.

The only reason I was tuning in to the live feed was because I have two Aston Villa players in separate Fantasy Football teams this season. Much like Baker's Saturday evening 606 show, fantasy football was fun when it didn't involve me, first when it was aired on Sunday mornings on Radio 5 hosted by Ross King in 92-93 (?) and then elevated to night time viewing in Frank Skinner and David Baddiel's mock-up flat the following season.

As much as there is enjoyment to be had from being an FF manager, there is also an "on comms" type discomfort about it, far beyond cheering the goals of players you shouldn't cheer, such as Frank Lampard's late winner for Chelsea at home to Bolton a few years ago (Only Chelsea fans should be thrilled about such things). There's also the hurtful reality of your indignity and moral bankruptcy coming to the fore such as at The Emirates in December 2012 when Michu of Swansea was bearing down on our goal in injury time for 2-0 and, amid the booing and outrage around me, came the recognition that the Spaniard had just earned me 10 points alone that Gameweek.

Perhaps most guiltily for me, is the compliance in a culture that allows American terminology to thrive. When I was growing up in the eighties, footballers, even ones like me in my playmaker role for my Dad's junior team, 'set goals up'. Commentator (in commentary) Alan Parry spoke of Kenny Dalglish as the "creator supreme" after setting a goal up for Ian Rush against Watford. Back then, players set up goals or created them, sometimes "laid it on". Now though, Trent Alexander Arnold is called the "King of Assists". In those halcyon days, "assists" was a term used by Americans to define the value of a soccer player in the North American Soccer League. Now "Assists" is famed language in FF and on telly.

I'm not anti-American but do believe we should stick to our roots. One should be encouraged to speak openly about national identity without danger of promoting nationalism, and I never appreciated Steven Gerrard describing his selection just in front of England's back four as a "quarterback role". But then I don't like people endlessly going on about "pressing" either or "the press", which comes from European football. Contrary to popular belief, "closing down" existed before "pressing". George Graham brought "closing down" to Arsenal when he first arrived, or at least more of it, the only 'press' was those watching it happen from behind typewriters, or word processors, whichever existed before the Premier League.                    

The commentators’ cultural curse

Many thousands of years ago, a week and a bit before the beginning of this November's international break, a Champions' League infringement took place that has, until now, been overlooked.

The incident took place in Borussia Dortmund's Signul Iduna Park, just five minutes into the hosts' game against Inter Milan in Group Z of the, some say, inflated competition. UEFA had arranged the game, organising a ref and everything, but no, it is not them responsible for the misdemeanour that has only just now, a little belatedly, come to light.

Some time past the eve of those five minutes, Inter Milan's Argentinian striker, Lautaro Martinez,  blitzed his way through the Dortmund defence and slammed his shot past Roman Burki to open the scoring. Up until this moment, the biggest blot on the commentators' network when describing a goal against a German team came 20 years ago when Clive Tyldesley, reacting to a far later strike, ruthlessly, scandalously and with much mock, inquired after the disappearance of Bayern Munich's back line while desperately hoping no one had heard or could remember Barry Davies' almost exact words from the 1988 Olympic Hockey Final between England and West Germany.

Until this moment.

With the net still rippling from Martinez's crack, BT Sport's BBC words man, Guy Mowbray, tried to take the heat off C to the T with a remark allegedly linking the heritage of the goalscorer with the hot form he is currently in.

"He's smokin!", Mowbray announced, using the goal just scored as evidence.

Guy knows what he's done, but is failing to admit it. "He's smokin!" is not the normal response of a commentator to a goal, or indeed of any sane, rational human being to any instance of excellence. He could argue that he was just trying to engage with the 'kidz' by referencing 25 year old film The Mask, but the cold hard facts are that Martinez is from Argentina, and Argentinians, like Cesar Luis Menotti for example, are known for smoking a lot.

Mowbs', if say, interviewed by fellow BBC observer, Emily Maitlis, might claim that Argentinians have an illusionary effect on him, such as was apparent in the World Cup of 2018 when the selection of the South Americans' full back, Mercado, sent him into a sweaty or not tailspin that humiliatingly resulted in a stream of toy-car related "jokes" only marginally less awkward than a member of the aristocracy being caught bantzy-ing around with a famous criminal. 

But Mowbs' has previous, having once mimicked the American accent of former Sunderland player, Jozy Altidore, going full "Oh my Gad!" when catching his dugout response to a goal by Sergio Aguero (admittedly another Argentinian... ok, maybe Mowbs' isn't entirely fibbing).

I myself cannot declare whiter than whiteness, for a start I subconsciously used the term "blitzed" in the lead up to describing Martinez's goal against Germans, but while I hold my hands up (Maradona) to that one, the "smokin!" Argentinian stereotype, triggered or otherwise, can only ever be an unforgivable, regrettable, mis-steak.        

VAR-crime on the rise in 'what goes around comes around' culture

In his previous occupation as a football manager, betting promoter Harry Redknapp used to dismiss the notion of video technology to govern debatable incidents on the pitch.

"These things even themselves out over the season" Redknapp reasoned, claiming that every team had more or less the same share of good and bad luck within the course of the nine month slog. That penalty you didn't get when your forward was blatantly chopped down? Well, hold off sprinting after the ref in disgust because next week you'll be given a goal that comes off a hand, and you won't give so much of a toss for justice, then.

Not all managers are as philosophical as Redknapp and refuse to see the light in favour of exhibiting the obvious conspiracy against them. Steve Bruce, for example, while manager of Sunderland in 2010-11, saw Arsenal have two goals incorrectly ruled out for offside at The Emirates and took away a nil-nil draw without complaint. Then, the very next week, he was moaning on about the ref costing his team a 2-0 defeat at home to Liverpool.

Mark Hughes is another one doused in ignorance, as regularly as night and day exercising the slack jaw, bemused frown and outstretched arms claiming yet another outrage against him. It's all one way according to him and Brucie. I'm sure it’s nothing to do with being managed by Alex Ferguson.

I might go further than Redknapp and add that the even-ing-out-over-a-season theory can sometimes become an even-ing out over the decades, sometimes involving exact opponents. For instance, England benefited from a goal that hit the crossbar and didn't cross the line in the 1966 World Cup against West Germany and then, 44 years later, when England did definitely put the ball over the line in-off the crossbar against the rebranded Germany, the goal wasn't given. Where Geoff Hurst's strike turned 2-2 into 3-2, Frank Lampard's wasn't allowed to turn 1-2 into 2-2. Perhaps if Lamps had stayed at West Ham it would have counted. Further proof that his decision to leave Redknapp's Hammers for Chelsea in 2001 was a cursed move.

What we have in the present day is Redknapp's assertion continually realised but in technological form. VAR has, in just half a season, shown that while some clubs may get the VAR rub of the green one week, they will likely be it's victim the next. Tottenham Hotspur, for instance, were denied a likely match-sealing second goal at Leicester in September thanks to their lively employee, Son Heong Min, being caught blatantly level with the last outfield defender. Going on to lose that game at the King Power Stadium, Son must have been nodding in righteous approval at the Tottenham Hotspur stadium this Saturday just gone, when Sheffield United were denied an equaliser thanks to the protruding toe of United's John Lundstram.

VAR supporters may point out that Sheff U got away with a foul in their penalty area on Arsenal defender Sokratis last month, but Arsenal fans now await equilibrium having suffered not just this incident but also Sokratis' incomprehensibly disallowed 'winner' at home to Crystal Palace last month. Sadly for this crop of Arsenal fans, given their team's infrequent visits to the penalty area, they may not see karma realised for a few seasons yet, perhaps decades even, as VAR looks for ways to 'even it up' for them.