On January 31st 1998, my then Danish girlfriend (she's no longer my girlfriend but is, I believe, still Danish) left her six month working holiday at the hotel we both worked at and returned to her homeland. My mum asked if our farewell was sad, and it was, but she wondered how I would respond to the distance now between us. Would it be a case of ‘out of sight out of mind or ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder'.
A couple of months later it turned out, as it often does for men, that her absence was only properly felt when she decided to make it a permanent arrangement. Suddenly I was desperate to go out there and settle, get a job and meet her parents; only now I deeply regretted the apathetic vibe I had undoubtedly given off to doing all of these things just because I wanted to continue playing with my mates in the Hemel Hempstead Sunday League. I'd been acutely aware of my happiness when we became a couple, and she met my parents and started staying over, but only when she was gone did I really understand what I'd lost.
She was the first girl I cried over. I'd tried weeping over lost girls before, using alcohol as the generator of tears rather than real emotions, and had mooned gloomily for months/years over even the most fleeting of relationships, but I'd understood what was coming when I saw the thinness of the fateful letter from Denmark, arriving as it did a few days after a phone call from her that had left me with an uneasy feeling.
The tears ran down my cheek effortlessly when my/our fate was confirmed, and I wrote back that day telling her that if she changed her mind I would be here, or there, or wherever she wanted. But of course it was too late, I'd blown it and I had some heartbreak to get through.
Inevitably I will now connect this sad story to football, though it's not quite so neat to compare my Danish girlfriend to my life-long affair with football that, albeit for the moment, has also packed it's bags. Football, it turns out, is no bigger than the world it inhabits, and has been swept aside by Covid 19 just like everything else, about to enter a third week of absence, it's scheduled return of April 2nd shrouded in doubt even on the Friday 13th shutdown, and it'll more likely be June or July when the European Championships - now moved to 2021 - would have been played.
But football still won't be as big as the world it inhabits then, and despite "eagerness" to get the season finished, a cancellation of the season cannot be ruled out. People's health will still be a more pressing issue and every day the sport seems less and less important.
Initially I was disappointed of course; Arsenal were 10 unbeaten in the league, an outside bet for the Champions League and drawn to play at Sheffield United in the FA Cup quarter final, which I fancied us to win. And Tottenham were out of all competitions again, another blank season trophy-wise and no prospect of another Champions League Final for me to have to fret over. And what of the Fantasy League? All that senseless, pointless toil for six months, making rubbish transfers, celebrating your mates' disastrous use of a triple captain. And I was top in my work league at the time of shutdown, a £30 prize within my grasp. And top in the FA Cup game with my new girlfriend's (of 21 years) mum's mates. Though 3rd bottom in that league. And bloody Kane and Rashford could both be fit for a Euro 2021, although they'll probably be just knackered instead.
I would feel for Liverpool of course, nearly 100 points last season, just one defeat this (thank you Watford) and possibly no title to show for their immense efforts. Two wins away from ending the 30 year wait, 25 points clear. They'll start to feel cursed. Then there's that Karren Brady, on the West Ham United board, calling for a null and void season with her team just outside of the bottom three. I can't say for sure she is striking out for her own interests but if she was she would fit in with most of the football makers, and it is because of this kind of self centred outlook and greed that, after those nearly three weeks, I am not mooning gloomily about the lack of football, or turning to drink to wallow in misery - and certainly not crying over it's absence.
The difference between football and my Danish girlfriend is that she didn't have me locked in an unhealthy relationship. She didn't indirectly hand me regular invitations, or compelling reasons to leave her. She didn't walk all over me, take me for granted. She listened to me and cared about how I felt. Football, generally, doesn't give a shit.
This period of no football is itself a trial period for me, an insight into how I could cope without it; it's an invitation or an opportunity to walk away from all the high maintenance. Every day without VAR is a better day. Every day without a fixture being rearranged for television to the detriment of the travelling fan is a relief. Every time a minimum of £64 isn't handed over for a category A match (just Emirates Stadium as an example) is a nicer existence. Every day that FIFA's expanded 24 team World Club Cup (to "promote the game in China") is under threat feels like a victory. The expansion of the Champions League, likewise. Every day that a football club owned by people guilty of human rights violations doesn't win is a triumph for good.
This can also be a trial period for football, though, and an opportunity. Admit that VAR doesn't belong in football and get rid of it. Think about your people like the government say they are thinking about their people right now. Reduce fixtures instead. Have one team from each country in the Champions' League (perhaps rename it the European Champions' Cup (could work, don't you think?!). Think of climate change while you are at it - even just to piss off bitter men over fifty who want Greta Thunberg dead. See through the punishments given to Manchester City. The evidence and qualified judgements are clear, don't let them wriggle their way back in.
Football in reflection and perspective could build a hopeful future. Could. Or it could be too easy for everyone to return to normal and wait for all this to pass. The government might still underfund the NHS, even after all the crawling and platitudes and big claps. Football may get a 32 team World Club Cup by 2036, VAR might get bigger and uglier, making us forget why we all began playing the game in the first place.
I must admit I would be in a state of meltdown had the pandemic happened between the ages of 5-30, particularly from 19 when I was playing in the mens' Sunday league. I recall writing at about 23 that I couldn't imagine being 40 and not playing football anymore. I was actually 36 when my knee gave way and ended my 11-a side adventure, but I'd had the best of it and I don't miss it now because I gave it everything in those 17 years.
Has my time come now to walk away from the game as a fan, turning instead to YouTube clips of days past? Or when it comes crawling back, will I lack the mental strength of a Gloria Gaynor and fall once more into the arms of the devil?
Wednesday, 1 April 2020
Monday, 16 March 2020
Jose and Dier's strikers' appeal wiped out by worthy crisis
The suspension of most of football (the exemption being the National League, who continue to babble on about the Nazis not being able to get their forefathers out so nor will
this two bob excuse for a threat..."Is that all you got, is it?!") has left us with us with a couple of cliffhangers equal to Liverpool's '30 year wait'.
Close pals Jose Mourinho and Pep Guardiola are at the heart of both.
Portuguese Spur Mourinho has long been an outspoken critic of big club underfunding, and has reliably brought it to the public's attention since 2004, particularly if the big club he is managing are losing because of him. He has exposed austerity-championing clubs such as Chelsea, Real Madrid and Manchester United for the pro-academy bums they are, and while his current tight squeeze Tottenham Hotspur has yet to feel the full force of Mourinho's lens-fixed wrath, this is because they are skint after paying him his salary demands and paying off a more popular manager.
So rather than engage in another feud with the board via the media for more money, Mourinho had, to the surprise of some, shown a measure of flexibility in trying to combat the injury problem with strikers that had plagued the club (do say plagued, Jose told the press.) With Champions League elimination just round the corner, Mourinho used the just finished FA Cup Fifth Round home defeat to bottom-of-the-table Norwich City on penalties to stage an impromptu benefit concert with all proceeds going to the injured Tottenham strikers charity, raising necessary funds to get new ones in for next season and stave off the threat of home grown players infecting the squad. But more importantly, raise awareness of the impossible problems facing Jose.
Almost as soon as the penalty shoot out was finished, Eric Dier was sent in to the stand, like an even less popular version of Bono wading through the crowd at Live Aid in '85 before belting out a 60's classic by The Hollies. Others liken Dier's moment to the show-stealing flamboyance of Freddie Mercury that day at Wembley 35 years ago, when he turned a previously underwhelming event into a memorable spectacle.
Mourinho neglected to hot-foot it to the BBC iplayer studio and demand the public hand over their "fucking money" but forever the plotter, arranged for his players to follow in Bono's footsteps again the next day and shoot an advert bearing the message "Every time I click my fingers, a Tottenham striker gets injured".
We may now never get to hear the pop single phase of the crisis.
As for Pep Guardiola, the story is shorter. Just before the suspension of Premier League and European football, PG insisted that there was no point playing football behind closed doors, as was being suggested at the time. Now that this probably won't happen, he won't get to see just how much of a difference to the attendance at "Emptihad" it really would have made.
So rather than engage in another feud with the board via the media for more money, Mourinho had, to the surprise of some, shown a measure of flexibility in trying to combat the injury problem with strikers that had plagued the club (do say plagued, Jose told the press.) With Champions League elimination just round the corner, Mourinho used the just finished FA Cup Fifth Round home defeat to bottom-of-the-table Norwich City on penalties to stage an impromptu benefit concert with all proceeds going to the injured Tottenham strikers charity, raising necessary funds to get new ones in for next season and stave off the threat of home grown players infecting the squad. But more importantly, raise awareness of the impossible problems facing Jose.
Almost as soon as the penalty shoot out was finished, Eric Dier was sent in to the stand, like an even less popular version of Bono wading through the crowd at Live Aid in '85 before belting out a 60's classic by The Hollies. Others liken Dier's moment to the show-stealing flamboyance of Freddie Mercury that day at Wembley 35 years ago, when he turned a previously underwhelming event into a memorable spectacle.
Mourinho neglected to hot-foot it to the BBC iplayer studio and demand the public hand over their "fucking money" but forever the plotter, arranged for his players to follow in Bono's footsteps again the next day and shoot an advert bearing the message "Every time I click my fingers, a Tottenham striker gets injured".
We may now never get to hear the pop single phase of the crisis.
As for Pep Guardiola, the story is shorter. Just before the suspension of Premier League and European football, PG insisted that there was no point playing football behind closed doors, as was being suggested at the time. Now that this probably won't happen, he won't get to see just how much of a difference to the attendance at "Emptihad" it really would have made.
Sunday, 9 February 2020
Midlands News: The Only Way is Down for Villa if Rodgers continues to block out the sun in Leicester
Dazzle-toothed Leicester City midfielder James Maddison has sensationally been approached by leading ITV giant The Only Way is Essex, who in an unconfirmed definite turn of events, expect to prize their man from the King Power Stadium on a cut-price deal.
Ever since the arrival of fellow gnasher-exhibitionist Brendan Rodgers as Head manager, it has been an open secret in football that the City of Leicester is not big enough for both his and Maddison's egos, and yet while the people of the 26th largest city in England were initially tolerant of the reduced light and cramped living conditions (sometimes the pearly whites' of manager and playmaker were utilised to break up the darkness, but there's only so long even those two can look at themselves in the mirror), when results were good, a downturn in league fortunes and a cup exit to local rivals has encouraged TOWIE that they can get Maddison on the cheap.
TOWIE, it is understood, see 'Mads' in a prominent role in their opening credits, decked out in a sharp made-to measure number readjusting his cuff links and allowing a CGI sparkle to bounce off his molars, possibly combined with a wink to camera. The solid side-partin as part of a small island of hair on an otherwise shaved head suggests to many that he carries TOWIE DNA.
Our sources understand that Rodgers will have the final say on any transfer, which indirectly means that TOWIE actually will, as Rodgers would almost certainly propose a counter-offer that would see himself take the Maddison role, or perhaps even play his Dad.
Should the deal break down, TOWIE would likely set their sights on perma-bodied-and-haired Jack Grealish of Aston Villa, although his accent may prove a stumbling block. Grealish, known as "Grealo" to a few, may also be holding out for a move to a rival show to TOWIE that is set nearer his home town of Solihull. A pilot for Made in the Midlands (a working title only, as it sounds similar to another part-scripted production) has yet to be aired, but Grealish is a certainty to be targeted, testing his working relationship with Villa manager Dean Smith and striker Wesley.
Maddison, however, remains No.1 on the TOWIE hist-list, and although some observers will say that such a dramatic move at this still early stage in his career will be an unnecessary gamble, that itself would not put the player off.
https://www.theguardian.com/football/2019/oct/17/leicester-brendan-rodgers-defends-james-maddison-casino-visit
https://www.pallmallbarbers.com/ask-the-barber/the-jack-grealish-haircut/
Ever since the arrival of fellow gnasher-exhibitionist Brendan Rodgers as Head manager, it has been an open secret in football that the City of Leicester is not big enough for both his and Maddison's egos, and yet while the people of the 26th largest city in England were initially tolerant of the reduced light and cramped living conditions (sometimes the pearly whites' of manager and playmaker were utilised to break up the darkness, but there's only so long even those two can look at themselves in the mirror), when results were good, a downturn in league fortunes and a cup exit to local rivals has encouraged TOWIE that they can get Maddison on the cheap.
TOWIE, it is understood, see 'Mads' in a prominent role in their opening credits, decked out in a sharp made-to measure number readjusting his cuff links and allowing a CGI sparkle to bounce off his molars, possibly combined with a wink to camera. The solid side-partin as part of a small island of hair on an otherwise shaved head suggests to many that he carries TOWIE DNA.
Our sources understand that Rodgers will have the final say on any transfer, which indirectly means that TOWIE actually will, as Rodgers would almost certainly propose a counter-offer that would see himself take the Maddison role, or perhaps even play his Dad.
Should the deal break down, TOWIE would likely set their sights on perma-bodied-and-haired Jack Grealish of Aston Villa, although his accent may prove a stumbling block. Grealish, known as "Grealo" to a few, may also be holding out for a move to a rival show to TOWIE that is set nearer his home town of Solihull. A pilot for Made in the Midlands (a working title only, as it sounds similar to another part-scripted production) has yet to be aired, but Grealish is a certainty to be targeted, testing his working relationship with Villa manager Dean Smith and striker Wesley.
Maddison, however, remains No.1 on the TOWIE hist-list, and although some observers will say that such a dramatic move at this still early stage in his career will be an unnecessary gamble, that itself would not put the player off.
https://www.theguardian.com/football/2019/oct/17/leicester-brendan-rodgers-defends-james-maddison-casino-visit
https://www.pallmallbarbers.com/ask-the-barber/the-jack-grealish-haircut/
Tuesday, 28 January 2020
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.
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.
Thursday, 9 January 2020
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.
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.
Friday, 3 January 2020
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). 
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!
Friday, 20 December 2019
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 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.
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