Football Rewind: Euro 96 18th June 1996 England v Holland, Group Stage, Wembley. A big crowd but no "crowd scene".

Perhaps unusually for someone who doesn't support England, I spent last night watching their 4-1 Wembley win over Holland during Euro 96 on ITV, where all the games are being shown again, this time sponsored by Pukka Pies (other life-shortening crusts are available.)

I enjoyed this second full viewing of the Wembley rout a lot more than I did the first 24 years ago when squeezed in among a joyous mob of England shirts in the Top of The World looking on solemnly as my country scored a flurry of beautiful goals past the lovely Dutch. England's encouragingly staid displays in the opening draw against Switzerland, and in the first half against Scotland, had now annoyingly given way to a Terry Venables style of wide boy swagger just as I'd pinned all my hopes on my Orange heroes putting their schoolboy squabbles behind them to deny the host nation the draw they needed to qualify for the knockout rounds (which, like turning 40, is when it really begins).

My mate with me didn't want England to win either, and we secretly brought our worship of Cruyff, Rep, Neeskens, Gullit, Rikjaard, Koeman and Van Basten to the all-standing arena of our second choice brewery in town (our local, the Gade & Goose, had taken the extraordinary and disappointing decision to close for refurbishment on the eve of the tournament). Sadly, none of those players were playing for the Dutch anymore, even if there was a Cruyff in name, though watching the game back in my living room, they weren't as flat as I'd assumed - well yes, ok, Holland is actually flat, but their team wasn't such a shadow of their great teams, just lacking a bit of personality in midfield in this post Wouters, pre Frank De Boer era.

We watched on resentfully as one our "friends" from school, also a G&G regular, jumped up and down with one of his oafish Spurs pals in particular celebration of Teddy Sheringham's goals. The "friend" noted our sombre demeanour later and told us "you should be praahd!" in his made up Londoner accent. Our prahdest moment came when sub Patrick Kluivert rolled Dennis Bergkamp's beautiful pass beyond David Seaman to reduce the arrears to a mere three and, in the process by goal difference, save Holland from elimination at the expense of Scotland, who were beating Switzerland 1-0 thanks to a goal from future ITV pundit Ally McCoist.

I wasn't sure if it was this goal that we subtly, or maybe not, saluted or whether it was the four goals we didn't that led my mate to claim that we were being stared at aggressively by a nearby England fan. We might have had our stories straight: ‘Just a defence mechanism, mate, been here before and all that, got the broken hearts to keep us grounded, er grahnded. You heard the song, Guv? Thirty Years Of and all that’.

Might have said that.  

There's no denying the quality of Sheringham's performance,  or of a Gazza Gascoigne, free from carrying around Wouters' elbow in his ear, but watching the whole thing back it's clear that the thing England miss most is Brian Moore. Don't mean to hurt your feelings Clive, but he shits on you. That natural, warm-hearted, unrehearsed enthusiasm, that sudden growl at moments of high excitement or anxiety, the reliable outing of "six and one and half a dozen of the other". Mooro's voice gives way in surprise delight after Sheringham's second goal. "Four!" he faltered grandly. How would you do it, Clive? Try and be our friend would you? Try to be a bit...cool. "England have only gone and scored a fourth!" "Where were the Dutch?" Quite frankly, who cares?!"

I'd been expecting Mooro's sidekick to be Big Ron, and quite looking forward to a bit of much-missed observational pottery but, as if airbrushed for a fixture of notable multiculturalism, his ultimately fateful tones never came, and the voice of Kevin Keegan, fresh from telling Richard Keys to tell Alex Ferguson this and that, decorated the occasion instead with some welcome insights. "De Koch is a big lad but not very mobile and I think Shearer can cause more problems for their defence", he said at the very beginning of the second half with England winning 1-0. Also, at 4-0 , "Bergkamp will be happier with Kluivert on the field, he doesn't like being a striker".

A pundit telling it how it will be rather than after it has happened.

As for the guys in the studio, well Bob Wilson observed that John Barnes ("as a player who just missed out on the squad") was "delighted" with the result, and maybe he was, but these footballers are good actors. David Ginola looked nothing other than the model of a patriotic Frenchman throughout BBC's coverage of the '98 World Cup in France, only for it later to turn out that he'd rather have had his eyes bleed out than witness his chosen compatriots lift the prize. 

Co-summariser Jack Charlton, who'd predicted a cagey, dour affair, and showed flashes of a future pundit Shearer with searing interruptions of Barnes' flow that he wouldn't have been able to manage as a defender, was momentarily silenced when Wilson prompted him to remember the last time England had scored four in a tournament match. 

"Oh, Germany in the Final...I always remember it as three!"

Some unexpected crowd moments (if you can imagine such a thing now) included Dutch fans smoking, which was presumably allowed back in 1996 (then again we were all going to die that year, so why not?) and England fans mocking them with "You're not singing anymore!", always an interesting chant against a foreign country or club, but then in all fairness (getting back to Big Ron) the majority of Dutch fans would have understood. Though singing "You're even worse than Scotland!" was surely self-effacing right? I mean, to mock a Scotland team and a Holland team who'd both beaten a Switzerland team whose only point came against England?! Well done Bulldog Bobbys, always the self-deprecating champions.

Most surprising of all for me was that Baddiel and Skinner and Brodie's Three Lions didn't get an airing until the 58th minute, and rather underwhelmingly too, while Swing Low Sweet Chariot, a ruddy Rugby song, got two rounds of stadium-sweeping harmony. 

I was quite amused that the Dutch sub 'De Koch' replaced Richard/'Dick' Witschge, although it doesn't seem as funny now that I've written it. On the subject of not funny, I noted that there wasn't a trace of humour in the rather curt, obligatory responses to Gary Newbon in the post-match battlefield. El Tel himself couldn't wait to get away, using only a Drogba-esque number of words to an overworked microphone, while the seated Sheringham and Shearer hardly played the belles of the ball themselves. Shearer, seemingly having failed to deposit all his frustration out on the pitch, was brimming with anger, moaning that "people can write what they want". He seemed to basically be saying that all people in the media are arseholes.

That hasn't changed, Al.                               

We're on a break but will football come back a better person?

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?                          

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.

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/

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).