Wrecked Ralph bows out

 So Ralph Hassenhuttl, played by David Morrissey, becomes the third Premier League manager to be sacked by November. Different season, same old shit. 

There will have been other sackings in other leagues - one at Watford obviously and probably another in the post - but I’m too ignorant to know the numbers, seeing as ITV’s highlights coverage of The Championship and beyond has interminable advert breaks that require a clear week to get to the end of. 

There have been several dismissals abroad too, notably a flurry of them in Ligue 1, but as far as the official greatest comp in the world is concerned, Hassenhuttl/Morrissey (H&M) joins Bruno Lage (Wolves) and Tommy Tuchel (Chelsea) as those not surprisingly dismissed, with that lack of surprise based on history and director-panic, rather than untenable situations. 

Yes, admittedly, the Wolves players under Lage seemed to be hit with a deadly drunk potion whenever they entered the penalty area, and Tommy T’s volcanic eruptions clearly lost their magic on his fancy-Dan millionaires, but the Midlands club were hovering about the top six for a lage part of last season (boom!) and it’s still only two years since TT won the CL after just six months in the job. That said, even Roberto Di Matteo did that. 

In fairness to Southampton, H&M was at least their longest serving manager for 30 years, since Chris Nicholls in 1991, even before Geoff Shreeves was invented. A mammoth four years he lasted, a lifetime by today’s standards, the equivalent of Guy Roux at Auxerre, a relationship that spanned two decades. Dario Grady-esque.

Have to say my initial reaction to H&M’s plight was of the eye-rolling nature. I then read that there had only been one win in nine, and of course the number nine plays a menacing role in the now ex Soton manager’s history, worthy of anything conjured up by Pemberton and Shearsmith (apologies to Shearsmith if I’ve got that in the wrong order). 

And yet it is a positive of H&M’s tenure that he was able to supervise impressive mental recoveries from those two red-card inflicted 9-0 record-equalling humiliations at home to Leicester City and at Manchester United - his players even beating their original torturers at the King Power that same season. 

The fact H&M kept the team up is probably an achievement too, as well as guiding them to the FA Cup semi-finals in 2021, their first since Laurie McMenemy lead the Shilton’s and the Wright’s and the Wallace’s and the Armstrong’s to get there in 1984-85. There was also a 1-0 win over Manchester City, televised live on BBC during the pandemic, breaking the channel’s viewing figures. So stuff you going on about your 9-0 bollocks!

H&M brought both a hard-pressing game and that bowing to the crowd thing they do in the Bundersliga. Or at least he did at first. Perhaps, like the accusations that followed his team, it ran out of steam before the end. There were, of course, other issues along the way in addition to the duo of heavy disasters and the dips in energy during the latter stages of games; there was, for example, a backlash from the fanbase when he’d expressed annoyance at having to play an FA Cup game - though the 2020-21 semi-final went some way to appeasing supporters whose like hadn’t been to Wembley since 1976. 

Nathan Jones of Luton Town is replacing H&M, which you’d think I’d be pleased about, given how annoyed I was when Southampton replaced Good old Englishman Nigel Adkins in 2013 for some fly-by-night Argentinian from La Liga played by Danny Dyer.  

Adkins’ team were holding their own in their first season back in the Prem, 12th or something, and had just rescued a draw at good-then Chelsea after being 2-0 down (anyone can win at Stamford Bridge now, indeed H&M’s side won there against TT’s iteration this season) when Poch/Dyer swanned in with no trophies to his names. 

Of course Poch/Dyer turned out to be a coup, so much so that within six years he was leading Tottenham Hotspur to a Champions League Final (though to be fair, even Tommy T has done that), while Adkins has never returned to the Prem, not even for Watford, unless I blinked and missed that one. 

Southampton dusted themselves down from being a club not good enough for the manager to speak without an interpreter, and went after Euro 88 and European Cup ‘92 hero Ronald Koeman of Holland and Barcelona. When he too impressed and fucked off (to Everton - what-a-mistake-a-to-make-a), the former Dell Boys put Mauricio Pellegrino in charge, on the admirable but flawed grounds that his name sounded just like Mauricio Pochettino and might be as good. His failed term led Soton back to the thespian route, appointing Claude Puel, played by Ben Stiller, but despite the new man’s extensive research of the role and a mid-table finish, audiences were numbed by the stilted creative process. 

The return of former player Mark Hughes as Puel/Stiller’s replacement heralded renewed faith in British beef but Jesus didn’t he moan on? So in came Ralph, immediately inspiring a 3-2 home win over Unai Emery’s Arsenal, who’d been unbeaten in 22 games over four months. Four years on, he leaves following a home 4-1 defeat to Newcastoil United but with reputation in tact, if not enhanced and definitely on Watford’s radar. 

But what awaits Ralph now? Well, short-term, he sought solace in an evening at The Southampton Civic Centre watching a performance by the Blue tribute act, Untrue Blue, as he set his stall out to no longer feeling Guilty about a Premier League football team being in a rut. My sources say that a nevertheless fatigued Ralph/David discreetly left before the end of the gig, choosing his moment to go just as the impopstars were encouraging the 1500-strong crowd to get to their feet as the opening tease of All Rise geared up. His detractors might say that this was yet another example of his failure to see the job through to the end, but you really are only as good as the artists on stage. 

Exit stage left, Ralph/David. The Doctor Who job went again during your St Mary’s tenure, but there will always be another team to rescue before the inevitable regeneration. 

World in Slow Motion

Denmark’s training top logos; Australia’s video message; compliant Five Live pundits referencing those two things. Laudable, helpful, appreciated. But not enough, of course. 

Pulling out isn’t straightforward, perhaps at times feeling impossible, but it’s important to know what the right thing to do is and back out of it, or even better distance yourself completely from it. Now is not the time to take offence at the World Cup being held in Qatar. They were awarded the thing in 2010. The human rights issues were there then too, as they are now. It’s too late to protest against something you are willingly about to fall headfirst in to. There’s little sense in qualifying your qualification. Don’t Show Up. Don’t Go Out. Don’t Start Caring About It Now. Walk Away. You Know How. Don’t Start Caring About It Now. Thank you, Lipa. 

The sudden attack of awareness smacks of a conscience- clearing exercise, of self-justification in ploughing ahead with supporting FIFA and Qatar. Don’t blame us, we’ve said our bit, can we crack on with the football now? 

Doing something of course, is better than nothing, and I was disappointed in myself a couple of weeks ago when a string of offensive views were presented at work, targeting everyone but white straight males, who are apparently a persecuted race. I made points but only in a training top, video message way, in fact if I’m being honest, the training top message was mis-printed and my video had significant audio issues. I didn’t do enough, and hated myself as much as the people projecting their deluded agenda. 

What I want to do is pull out with aplomb, to do the right thing no matter how hard it is. The easy part is not watching Qatar 2022, but the challenge as ever is to back up your beliefs, to spread them as widely as the opposition do. 

 

The People’s Game

During the World’s most recent pandemic, when among other things there were no football fans at football grounds during the football, the ever-lucid Alan Shearer suggested that when the fans returned, they should do so to reduced ticket prices, such was the impact they brought to matches, evidenced by their absence. 

At that time, everything seemed possible, that effective positive change was the consolation goal, that our shared experience of the Coronavirus would bring hierarchies and authorities and The People together, all shooting at the same target, aiming for the top corner of transparency and justice and the common good; simply, making things better. Even the Tories were acting like socialists in those befuddling, scary and tragic early days. Division and Hate were under threat as peace and unity marched in. The days of a 24-team Club World Cup were all but over. 

When football fans properly returned to stadiums, beyond the staggered, then abandoned, then staggered again drip-feed return, when full capacity was the norm once more, with vaccines rolled out and, eventually, boosters, equating to a fifth round of injections- no replays - they did so, naturally, as the world returned to its offices and its cynicism and its manipulation like nothing had happened (which in fairness, was actually true for many during lockdown if you shied away from baking your own bread, didn’t have Netflix to complete, or your own home to build a pub in, or kids to home-school), bringing into play the acid test for Shearer’s broadcasted wish. Now the masks were off, would the fans, who’d suddenly been noticed and grieved during the era of canned noise as a viewing setting - “our loyal fans” as Premier League executive Richard Masters pronounced - be respected, treated like adults, even see their newly-gained status of worth reflected in that price of admission?

The general feeling is no, that hasn’t happened, and in some cases quite emphatically; for instance, the actual day of the game between Chelsea and Weat Ham in September wasn’t even known to the public less than a week before it’s eventual kick off. But, as Shearer himself might say these days, there are two sides to every story. You might not be told when the match you’ve paid, still extortionately for, will happen, but you can now purchase Arsenal’s official pre-match shirt for just £55. 

 I was first alerted to the pre-match shirt by email, invited to click on the Arsenal Direct link and see what the big news was. I always have a look at the latest offerings (without ever actually buying anything; when you’ve got the green and blue and white trim replica kit from 82-83 in your house, what else is left?), and was left somewhat flabbergasted by the gall of it. A new level of low had seemed to have been found, yet barely a week later, there someone was, at the Worthing summer parade, dressed in it, a real-life, Part of The Problem mannequin. Shearer will never realise his dreams while these people exist. 

Except I forget, of course. Shearer is happy with how fans are being treated now. Or at least Newcastle United fans. The bad Sports Direct man has gone, and the brave Saudi Arabian murderer is in. He’s shown his trillions, given some of us a different perspective on Eddie Howe and spent some of that money on players who wouldn’t have touched Newcastle with a barge pole before last summer. Geordie fans can dream again, they see Cups, Europe, exciting football. They’ve got their Newcastle back. They’ve also completed Netflix, wetting their pants over the intimately detailed disaster movie Sunderland Til I Die. 

Football fans will only be given serious recognition once they choose to stay away from grounds on the basis that they are viewed as gullible peasants rather than because of the law, and also when they stop buying tactless merchandise, which we are told is now the prevalent source of club income over gate receipts (or online booking). Only when fans are no longer “loyal”, will ticketing and fixture dates go their way. Until then we will remain out of pocket and in Richard Masters’. 

 

Parents are easy scapegoats, and I’m sorry

In my last post, I criticised parents for buying their children, or allowing their children to buy, Paris St Germain shirts. I realise now I may have been hasty, even arrogant, in projecting that view.

Some of those children may not have a full set of parents living with them, or may not have parents at all, and last week, while I sat in the part-Saudi Arabia funded Sainsbury’s petrol station, I reflected that it was unfair of me to blame, for instance, a run-off-her-feet single mum or Dad, who might not be into football and it’s politics, for asking no questions about their son’s football shirt of choice. If it was a birthday or Christmas present, well it’s one job less to worry about. 

In my street, there is a Mum with two children, one of who wears a Manchester City shirt. There used to be a man living there, who I know to be a Tottenham fan, because he was blasting out Chas N Dave Spurs songs before their FA Cup semi final with Chelsea in 2017 and whooping with joy over Kane and Eriksen’s goals that ultimately only contributed to a  4-2 defeat. The Dad never shows up now, or rather I never see him show up, but whatever the situation the kid has presumably taken up with the best team rather than his dad’s. Does his mum, who I have seen going out to work, or at least wearing clothes promoting a business, need the bother of drilling down into the details of why he supports a club 300 miles away? Manchester City, eh? The best are they? I always thought they were rubbish; you sure it’s not the United shirt you want?

Maybe the mum is a City fan, can’t rule that one out, but in future when I see these oil-friendly shirts, I will try not to leap into the blame game, just as I’ll try not to blame them for letting their kids watch the World Cup in Gilead. We’ve all got so much going on, the kids are entertained, not missing out, not asking questions, and that’s cool because many of us are too distracted to have any answers. 

Germain measles

It has been a summer of laughs, tears, intense heat and senseless squabbling over technology. Oh, and Paris St Germain kits. They are bloody everywhere. 

Wherever we’ve been during this six-weeks of school holiday turbulence, the Qatari-owned colours of sickening wealth, greed and oppression have been on show; Legoland, Ironbridge, Brighton, Canterbury - kids galore in PSG. There was an adult too, in my local shopping centre yesterday, wearing one. Kids, you can forgive, their parents less so. Lone adults, certainly disappointing. 

As I observed the growing number of these ill-informed or shameless specimens, I wondered what the motivation was behind it; what was it that first attracted you to the billionaires, Paris St.German? 

I assumed it must be a Messi thing, or a Neymar thing, or a Mbappe thing, and at Ironridge there was the remnants of Messi’s name on the back of a child’s shirt (all that money and they can’t even do the honour of making wash-proof material), and though I didn’t actually see any Neymar’s, there was a plethora of Mbappe’s. That said, in my local Tesco I noted a Wijnaldum, which sent me into a tailspin. 

Are these people actual PSG fans, or, as was apparently the case with all the Liverpool fans in my primary school days, is it just the shirt they like? As a child I had shirts other than Arsenal’s - Barcelona’s, Scotland’s, Denmark’s, Sweden’s; I had the Swedish one when I was 17 because I liked Tomas Brolin. Or, in an age of satellite television covering all major European leagues and inaccessible and unaffordable ticket prices (certainly in the Prem), are PSG as much a part of peoples lives as Man City? A couple of years ago, over the Adventure playground with my kids, I heard a child say they supported “Chelsea and Real Madrid.”

So, it is all the more uplifting when I see a child in a Watford shirt, as I also saw in my home town that same afternoon of the adult in PSG (Watford isn’t the town team, but the nearest professional one) or a Brighton shirt when we were in Portslade, just a few minutes from Brighton. I noted too, that these junior Watford shirts didn’t have a sponsor on them, even though the first team is regrettably sponsored by a casino company. Perhaps there is an option not to sponsor the sponsor when you buy. A case of more aware parents, perhaps. Literally Gambling Aware. Watford also cancelled a proposed friendly with the Qatar national team this summer after opposition from the club’s LGBTQ+ and Women’s groups. Good for them. 

It’s hard to be morally perfect, and to always keep the devil’s hand at bay, but a show of principled values is always welcome, unlike the PSG shirts. Anyway, the kids are back at school now, and there’s a lot of Spurs kits worn there, which has somehow become a righteous thing, if still deeply disappointing! 

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.