The Good Foul

Newcastle United full back Kieran Trippier defended his foul on Manchester City’s Kevin De Bruyne during last Sunday’s 3-3 draw in the Anti-Human Rights derby at St James’ Park, suggesting it was right that his red card was overturned by VAR. 

“I’m not the kind of person to deliberately injure another player” he told Guy Mowbray. 

Very commendable, Kieran, although I note you that are more than happy to play for an ownership that beheads people. 

Sorry. Shame on me. Can I not see the possibility that Kieron is trying to bring down, not just De Bruyne, but the regime from within, beginning with this declaration of morality? His signing on fee and wages? Bah! Just part of the plan. 

I should be more open to the goodness of human beings: it may be tempting to disapprove of Newcastle manager Eddie Howe doing the job while pretending not to hear certain journalists asking for his opinion on the alarming death rate conducted by his Saudi employers, but might he too be  working underground, playing the long-game, taking secret messages from like-minded activists covertly positioned in the training ground, the canteen, laundry room, the Men Only Freddie Shepherd lounge?

The challenge of course, is to not to get distracted by the improvement on the pitch, the suddenly plausible prospect of European football, of one day actually beating City. Or fitting into the surroundings like compliant citizens, quite happy actually with how things are turning out. Not being the kind of people to deliberately harm the golden goose. 

Chris and Tel - Gettit?

For someone who exhausts the patience of my dearest ones with terrible puns, it comes as a massive jolt to the system when I miss one. My favourite Only Fools and Horses Christmas special is from 1987, To Hull and Back, yet it was only after I'd watched it numerous times over numerous years that I learned that the title was a play on words of (yes, I know, you know) 'to hell and back'. Like Trent Alexander Arnold’s part in Real Madrid’s Champions League Final winning goal, I’d somehow failed to see what was right in front of me. At the film’s centre is a hellish journey over land and sea, from London to Hull to Zeebrugge to Amsterdam and back again. Near the end, Del even complains "I've been to Hull and back!" It should have been as obvious as Uncle Albert’s over-theatrical act of instant recovery the second Del applied to him his healing back massager in front of the market stall crowd. 

There have been other examples of my television-based pun ignorance - BBC's All Quiet on the Preston Front stands out - so with my own history of word-play inadequacy, it is perhaps understandable that I have delayed the release of my biography on Chris Waddle and Terry Venables, which I want to call ‘Chris and Tel.’

I'll level with you, it's the pun that motivated me to write the book. In the way that some managers are minded to build their teams around a couple of star individuals, I was prepared to play hostage to the guaranteed few seconds of initial customer appreciation. Other managers build from the back…I was plotting success from the front cover.    

In fairness to me, there is more to my work than the title (I hope), and it’s not like it I haven’t ever spoken to either of my subjects. Chris was a novice Burnley manager when he found me in my porter's outfit at the Watford hotel I worked at in the mid-late 90’s, and asked me for a flipchart stand and pad so he could conduct his team talk in the Aldenham suite with greater credibility. Unfortunately, the last one had just gone to Cabuchon, a jewellery company - news he received with minimal grace.    

Venables I haven't actually met (I did say 'either'), though I was one of the few to note to his low-key walk to the Middlesbrough dugout on his return to White Hart lane on Boxing Day 1999, when he was helping out Bryan Robson. Or at least I'd assumed it was low-key, Tel emerging from the tunnel as play was ongoing. I admired it at the time, anyway; perhaps, really, his secret intention was to instigate a play-stopping standing ovation, him being a revered player there of course, and one of only three managers in the last 30 years to have brought a trophy to that stadium. Given that I want to write a book about him, I'll stick to the low-key theory.

I have no other muck to throw at these men, and certainly no stories of illicit liaisons with scorned or financially-ambitious lovers (episodes, in tabloid parlance, that would constitute a 'kiss and tell', yeah?) but to justify the book, there are a number of intriguing career clashes between them: both played for Spurs; both have managed (one more successfully than the other); both have played or managed abroad; both have experienced international semi-final penalty shoot-out heartbreak (one more responsible than the other); both have been pundits, both have branched out in the entertainment industry while still in football (neither that successfully). This is more than enough to get my teeth into. And I did get my teeth into it; there are pages and pages of fillings.

It's just that title. The strength has become the weakness. Will the nation see the joke? Will it pull them in? Or will they simply assume that I have called the book after the subject's names/nicknames? I'm hesitating, I can't deny it. I may need a few days, get lost a bit further in Glenn Hoddle's autobiog. Hod was not only one of my playing heroes as a kid, but on page 4 of his book, he says he gets his hatred of injustice from his mum. Can't wait for the chapter on his downfall as England manager.

Hoddle has called his book Playmaker, a perfect title for a midfielder who made the play. Not that that was always on show. There was the occasional sin of going missing when he was needed. But at least the London boy never started out at Hull, and would have to wrestle with his own book title in the future.                  

‘On me be-head, son’ - time for a final Steve Bruce chapter?

One day I won't have to put up with a leaking boiler, or have to go through the front door to look at my broken fence in the back garden because the patio door won't open, and there won't be a hole in my bathroom ceiling letting in rain water, and I won’t have to contemplate living in a house that isn’t big enough to contain my three children and them sharing rooms that aren’t clean because I also don’t have the money for a fully functioning hoover.

I can't confirm whether that 'one day' constitutes greater finances or death, but I can say for sure that none of these bothers will be shared by Steve Bruce. Steve Bruce has £7,000,000 extra squids in the bank thanks to being sacked by his hometown club Newcastle United, or rather what stands for Newcastle United these days.

Despite his lifelong allegiance with NUFC, his own people never took to him as manager, and he says that the personal abuse he has received from the fans, and the toll it has taken on him and his family, will likely mean he won't be managing another club. He certainly doesn't need to, of course - the beheading fully comp will ensure that he can comfortably produce another acclaimed football mystery trilogy to rival Defender, Sweeper and Striker. But what of the passion for which he isn’t ridiculed (NUFC spell excepted)? Can the flowing of blood money and coalmine language in his direction stem the tide of desire?

Brucester's millions doesn't necessarily have to be about settling down with a pen and pie and a grateful dispensing of all this bollocks about 'progressing the ball'. When Brian Clough was given a pay-off by Leeds United after his legendary 44-day tenure in 1974, he used the financial security to bolster his football principles, and set up his teams in the way he wanted them to play rather than compromise to stay employed and feed his family. This apparently turned out rather well.

Steve Bruce is not Brian Clough, that much is true, but there is a vacancy going at Norwich City, who he played for before Manchester United (£900,000 the fee, I seem to believe). I would enjoy seeing him managing the club he led so well as a captain, and serving Delia would be so much more rewarding, no matter what you put on her plate, than the mask of Amanda Staveley that is clearly concealing the face of Prince Mohammad bin Salman. Maybe the only thing stopping the former Sheffield Wednesday, Sheffield United, Aston Villa, Birmingham City, Sunderland and Newcastle manager from being chauffeur driven to Carrow Road is that he hasn't yet managed Ipswich Town. And he can always turn to them afterwards.

The other thing stopping Bruce replacing Daniel Farke might be the preliminary talks Norwich are reportedly having with Frank Lampard. And maybe it would be better all round if the ex Chelsea and Man City disciple were instead to preside over their slow death this season. If there is something Bruce couldn’t accuse his most recent former bosses of, it is dithering over the end of a life.

              

The Premier League: Please watch irresponsibly

 In July 1991, when I had just turned 16, I was in the Arsenal end at Watford for a pre-season friendly, thrilled by the hilarious homophobic chanting directed at the hosts chairman, Elton John. 

The emphatic rounds of “Elton John’s a homosexual” as soon as he appeared on the pitch as part of a presentation for the club groundsman, not only added a new dimension of gloss to my recently acquired life on the terraces, but kept me in good spirits for several days after; it was as memorable a moment that night as when former Watford and Arsenal full back Pat Rice had waved our way during his own on-pitch introduction. 

In October 2021, aged 46, I must reconnect with that 16 year old in order to support my excitement of the Premier League and not get bogged down in fusty old morality. If I want to avoid conflict with my natural desire to be engaged with the league that Arsenal compete in, then I have to ignore my natural grievances that the game in this country continues to produce as frequently as Vicarage Road introduces new managers these days. 

My ‘bothered’ amnesty with football lasted three weeks; I couldn’t help myself looking forward to Arsenal’s home game with Norwich City as the one that would stop the rot; I wanted to be at The Emirates to see them bashing up Spurs; I started watching Match of The Day; I am counting up the points that my secured players in the auction-based fantasy league are earning me. I am weak of will, a yellow, lily-livered let-down incapable of walking away from an abusive relationship, hooked forever on the nicotine that will one day kill me. I am good at making noises about leaving but it’s no good, I love it, and I can’t help what I love, right?

I mention the Emirates, and it’s bad enough the ground being called that, with the anti-human rights statement it brings, let alone the shirt sleeve recommending you ‘Visit Rwanda’, a country run by an Arsenal fan who orders the deaths of those who threaten to expose the appalling injustice there. 

So, onto the Prem’s latest bit of business - and their compliance in overseeing Newcastle United’s takeover by a Saudi Prince, who puts the outgoing Mike Ashley’s zero-hour contracts in the shade, with a profitable career in beheading. The Prem’s much-lauded Fit and Proper Persons Test has, with his arrival (though not in club affairs, honest) been dealt another decisive blow.

Of course, the 19 other innocent bystanders of the Prem have voiced their opposition, a number which includes Manchester City and Chelsea, who are probably so engaged in and deluded by their own sportwashing agendas that they truly cannot believe anyone has the temerity to plough billions of pounds into a football club that they have no connection to just to cleanse their reputation. 

But what City and Chelsea have to do is leave their principles at the turnstiles. To get the most out of this Prem showcase, they and we must go all-in. Newcastle’s legendary 'greatest fans in the world' have been celebrating the return of their club to them, discovered in the Sports Direct eternal fire-sale by the Arab saviours. This is the spirit. Welcome without examination, the murderous regimes; support that lovable old rogue, Rupert; chuckle at your mate Jeff as he advertises betting, which has cost his friend and colleague 7 mill; sneer a bit at the taking of the knee; roll your eyes at the Rainbow laces; say bollocks to #MeToo while you’re at it. As long we’re all 16, we can enjoy this never ending thrill-ride.

No point looking away now

A couple of weeks ago, I received notification that tickets were on sale for Arsenal v AFC Wimbledon, and inside the  email was a countdown to kick off, though more appropriate - as it turned out - would have been a countdown to the congestion outside the ground that delayed kick off. 

Perceived wisdom is that the problems were caused by 20,000 tickets going on ‘general sale’ , and casual fans being unfamiliar with the stadium layout, not to mention the usual lack of urgency to get in on time while selfies had yet to be completed, and a thorough browsing inside the club shop.

Luckily, most were inside to see Eddie Nketiah’s imaginative back-heeled goal, and it is any moments like these that seem to be the point of League Cup matches. Manchester City have won the last four League Cup finals and will no doubt make it a fifth in succession. They win it so routinely that the trophy is usually forgotten when summarising their season; didn’t win the league or Champions League, not even the FA Cup. A season of failure. 

All the eyes on Nketiah’s goal, and all the frustration of those not being able to make kick off, and all the thousands of words on the 3-0 home win should, with all reasonable logic, have been geared towards the story of the match itself, rather than on any journey to lifting the trophy. Same with all the other goals and moments to in all the other games, unless they involved City; the ending to the League Cup has already been written, it’s just the tale that needs to be weaved.

The countdown to Manchester City’s triumph at Wembley. 

The Arsenal Megamix comin' at ya!

Of course you can't extricate yourself entirely, and I've dabbled, skimmed the surface, ok dived in a bit, but not long enough to get used to the cold. Got back out again pretty quickly.

The 'in-game' punditry of Arsenal's defeat to Chelsea contained the same old go-to favourites:

"Soft underbelly"

"Same old problems"

"Where are the leaders?"

I compare this to being on the clubbing circuit in the mid 90's and 2000's when you hear the Grease! Megamix week after week, year after year; there comes a time when you just can't listen to it any more. You stop, blow out your cheeks and walk away from the dance floor. 

I still haven't seen a second of MOTD (or MOTD2 if you're asking) this season, and it's liberating not to have caved in - not that I'm denying myself. I miss Wrighty but I don't need the smug, underhand gloating of Lineker, Jenas and Murphy, nor the pontification of Shearer. What gets said online by SKY and BT just gets repeated on air at a later part of the day, the afternoon suits doing the evening casuals work for them. 

Another benefit of not committing, is the avoidance of gloom that the international break delivers. Who cares there's no football this week, there hasn't been any for me the previous weeks! Maybe when my auction-based fantasy league kicks in, November's will be a source of frustration, but the appeal of that competition is the absence of dabbling and tinkering; you don't get the withdrawals of unnecessarily messing your team up (there's some movement in November and February when you can drop and select three players max, but it is normally in a pub and includes a roast dinner - although the mini-auctions might be on zoom this season).

Arsene Wenger may be in the familiar position of fielding a whole load of flak for FIFA's World Cup every two years proposal, but his idea to condense the painful tedium of qualifiers seems worth listening to at least. Let's take England as an example; their last interesting qualifying group was in 2007-8 when they missed out to Russia and Croatia. Three decent teams in one section, only two able to qualify. McClaren was ridiculed and sacked but Russia reached the semi-final and Croatia the quarter-final.  2007-08 qualifying also gave us The Wally with the Brolly and Paul Robinson letting a Gary Neville back pass roll under his feet. What do we remember today's World Cup and Euro qualifiers for? Racism mostly, and UEFA/FIFA doing nothing about it.

The 2008 tournament had 16 teams, we now have 24, so the chances of competitive qualifying are virtually zero for the established sides. If this misery must continue, can it not go back to how it used to be, qualifiers midweek without interrupting the league schedule at the weekend? I get that's hard with clubs being represented by nationalities all over the world, but hey I don't care anyway, do I?             

Remembering better times and Sean Lock

I haven't watched a single second of last week's season opening round of football. No, don't applaud me, there are people out there achieving far greater feats than that (yes really).  Truth is, I haven't even been tempted, so it's neither a victory of willpower or self-sacrifice. I don't need it any more, I'm done.

Do I believe myself? I never have before so why should I now, but take my approach and response to Arsenal's result at Prem new boys Brentford on Friday night: just about to turn to my pillow to go to sleep, I remember to have a look at the score on the phone. Brentford 2 Arsenal 0. I do a half-amused grunt, put the phone to the side and turn back to the pillow. Previous incarnations of first day defeat (which at least were on a ‘day’; the Friday night factor perhaps lends weight to apathy) would have had me raging or sulking, but though I knew the result would lead to a mass outpouring of the former, I felt liberated not to be a part of it.

A journalist last week wrote of a "major tournament hangover" affecting the atmosphere at the Community Shield between Leicester City and Manchester City, but mine is an ongoing, self-inflicted bout of sickness due to an over-indulgence of tolerating greed and lip-service that has moved football as far as it possibly can go from a parent and their child kicking a ball about over the local field.

I could have gone to Arsenal v Chelsea tomorrow afternoon, because tickets are still available - even with a full house at The Emirates being allowed for the first time in 18 months - but I'll never pay £64 minimum to watch a regular game of football. I used to choose to pay £6 to stand on the north Bank, and then £11 when I could pick seats in the all-seated North Bank stand in 1993-94. Yes, not every match is minimum £64, but the category system they operate is flawed, as it suggests that the quality of opposition will guarantee a better match, which is simply not true. All fixtures are as important as each other, and £30 to watch every one of them would be a fair price.

One person who sadly won't be at the Emirates is Chelsea fan and comedian Sean Lock, who died earlier this week from cancer at the age of 58. Two of my favourite lines from him involve football. One is from 2006, when he narrated a World Cup free-kicks compilation in the style of Harry Hill doing You've Been Framed. Watching David Beckham curl one in against Colombia in 1998, Sean remarked "And here's David Beckham...bending it like Stoichkov".  

The other comes from the same year on the panel show They Think It's All Over when he was captain of one of the sides. Speaking of Steve McLaren, then Middlesbrough manager, he claimed that his nickname was "The Chair". "Sometimes he sits down, sometimes he stands up...he's a bit of a character!"

Sean Lock was certainly a character, and even funnier than McLaren saying English words in a Dutch accent.   

I'll miss him on the telly more than corporate football.