Two Wheels Good, Four Wheels Bad - Mimitig

I didn't think up that title lightly - as a long-time fan of Formula One, Touring Cars and Le Mans, it is a sorrow to me, and shaming that all the headlines and column inches these last few days about four-wheeled motorsport have been about the McLaren/Ferrari spy scandal. Now, this is with the courts at the moment so least said the better, but what I must say is that Ron Dennis is one of the most honourable men on the planet and it is, to me, unbelievable that he would be involved in anything dirty. The real sadness is that whatever the outcome of the case, this year's championship will most likely be remembered primarily for the skull-duggery and not for Lewis Hamilton's amazing debut as an F1 driver.

However, with MotoGP and Le Tour taking centre stage this weekend, I do celebrate the men on two wheels. It's not just that they are totally and utterly insane: in what other sports do men compete carrying serious injury? I mean, in athletics some French long-jumper received a gentle spearing by an errant javelin and went off injured! Huh, our men are made of sterner stuff. In bikes they ride with broken hands, feet and occasionally legs.

Today, Andreas Kloden climbed back in the saddle with a fractured coccyx and his team mate, Alexandre Vinokourov took the start with both knees and one elbow stitched up (not counting the really nasty wound on his right buttock). They stayed safe on the first mountain stage today, watching while unknown Gerdemann took the win, the Maillot Jaune (so he got the cuddly lion) and the white jersey. Australians Cadel Evans and Michael Rogers did themselves no disservice and remain on course for a high General Classification. Over at the Sachsenring, another Aussie claimed pole for the bike race. Young Casey Stoner is really looking like a champion this season.

But it's not just the competitors that throw wide the gulf between the two and four-wheeled sports. Readers of my previous articles will know that I have a keen ear for commentary - mostly preferring chaps on the wireless, but I don't always turn the sound off on the telly and I have been following a few pairs of commentators for many a year now. In F1 we have the pairing of Brundle and Allen. Now, Martin Brundle is an ex-racer who knows his stuff and still puts himself on the line getting into racing cars and risking making a fool of himself. James Allen is a complete idiot who thinks he knows it all, but knows less than the average fan and it's obvious in the commentary box that Brundle despises him. Doesn't make for good commentary.

Move over to the motor-cycles and we have the utterly charming combination of Steve Parrish and Charlie Cox. Now here's a thing - Charlie has never ridden a bike in anger and doesn't pretend to have that experience. An ex-tin-top driver who has discovered bikes through his BBC contract, he is the perfect foil for old racer Parrish - who still gets on the bikes to take us through a lap of the track. Charlie, an Australian, uses his immense depth of language - metaphor and simile being his speciality (he needs that like a third armpit, they're sliding around like dogs on lino, it's a nightmare in a bubble car, he's flat out like a lizard drinking being just a few examples) and Steve is so modest about his own past as a TT winner, that we sometimes forget how important his name is in British motor-cycling.

It's much the same in the road-cycling. Paul Sherwen and Phil Liggett share the same warm camaradie as Charlie and Steve. They never mention their own achievements but work so well as a team. When they describe a stage on Le Tour, it could be filled with memories of what they'd done, but it never is. They are quite possibly the best commentating duo on television in this era. The Tour also benefits from the best presenter - Gary Imlach. Immaculate credentials within the sporting fraternity make Imlach an instantly recognisable name (and football fans will know exactly what I mean here), and his front-of-the-house partnership with British cycling legend Chris Boardman is one that over the last few years has become a benchmark for presenters and specialists. Of course it helps that Boardman still gets on his bike to ride the final K or so of a stage and explain the trickeries of the course for the viewers, and helps that Imlach is still in awe of Chris's achievements in the saddle.

But isn't that what we look for in commentary? Experts who are not afraid to get their hands dirty and presenters who are true fans, of the sport and of the heroes. Formula One is just so lacking.

Zounds, or possibly Zut alors. This was supposed to be a preamble to a piece tomorrow rounding up the first week's racing in France with maybe something on the motor-cycles, but it's already too long. Without GU's stringent 500 word limit, my passions run away. I'll return later.

A game in amber - Ebren

Tick...

The floodlights infuse everything with a harsh, yellow light making the green of the grass look plastic and the red of the opposition shine. Beyond the pitch is darkness.

Behind me a team-mate screams encouragement.

There is a defender three meters away in front of me to my right, at two o'clock. There is another defender to my left - a meter further away, at nine-thirty.

They are irrelevant. The ball hangs in the air closer than both of them.

It is coming towards me, dropping in slow motion into that pocket of space in front and slightly to the right of my knee. The hitting zone.

I take in the wider scene.

The goal is ahead or me 15 or so metres away. The goalkeeper is too far to his left. Nine players are looking at me, or at the ball.

The top corner is there. Right There. There is nothing between my right boot and it. The scores are tied.

I can see it. See it all. See it in my head. Burned into my head. Still there, days, weeks, months, later.

I start to lift my right foot - body shape, it's all about body shape.

...Tock

The best centre back England never had, or wanted - kokomo

He has led one of the best defences in the world for the last three years. In that time, he has won a Champions League, an FA Cup and been to another Champions League final. He has also been instrumental in his team having its best domestic season, and tightest defence, for 16 years. Before that, he was played largely away from his best position, but even then he was an integral part of a team which won the UEFA Cup, FA Cup and two League Cups.

When his current club manager took charge of Liverpool, he soon declared him the equal of his previous prized charge, Roberto Ayala, then considered one of the finest defenders in the world. He has twice been voted into the Champions League team of the year, and two years ago was voted in the top 30 world players of the year, a higher position than any other British defender. Franco Baresi, the greatest defender of modern times, has called him the best defender in Europe, and he has received lavish praise as he led his team to clean sheet after clean sheet across Europe.

He has a solid number of international caps, and was until recently the record holder for Under-21 caps for his country.

This tells the tale of a bright young talent, who fulfilled his potential with a trophy-laden career, gaining all of the plaudits along the way.

And yet, and yet... No-one has really taken any notice of Jamie Carragher as an international footballer. It was not until this week, as he announces his probable departure from the international scene, that anyone has written about him as an England defender.

Three years ago, as Rio Ferdinand was suspended for failing to attend a routine drugs test, England went into Euro 2004 with a first choice central defensive partnership of Sol Campbell and John Terry. A very strong duo. Campbell suffered an injury shortly before the game, and for a week or so all of the speculation was about who would replace him, with it generally seen to be a straight fight between Ledley King and Carragher. On that occasion, King won out, and it was probably the right decision. Carragher had only just started playing centre back again regularly for Liverpool, and his one achilles heel was leading the French attack that night; Thierry Henry.

In the three years since, while those on the continent have been falling over themselves to praise him, not a lot has changed in the public perception of Jamie Carragher in this country. Some say that it was his misfortune to be part of the same generation as the admittedly strong Terry and Rio Ferdinand. That may be true, but since Euro 2004 the following players have also been picked ahead of Jamie Carragher at one time or another: Jonathan Woodgate, Ledley King, a half-fit ageing Sol Campbell, Wes Brown, Phil Neville, and Matthew Upson, all to no great public disbelief. I defy anybody to tell me why they deserved to be picked ahead of Jamie in that time.

If he had been born Italian, he would have contested a World Cup final last summer (I hesitate to say won the World Cup, as he lacks the goalscoring ability of the matrix). If he were German, their defence would have been built around him. The Brazilians would love a player like him. Even the French, very strong in this area, would surely have been glad to see the back of the hapless Mikel Silvestre if Carragher were born in Bordeaux instead of Bootle. A team of Carragher’s would probably not be very good, but there are not many teams who wouldn’t benefit from one Carragher.

Here though, we have damned him with faint praise; ‘A local lad lending a (shrill) scouse voice to Liverpool.’ ‘Prepared to die for the cause.’ ‘Makes the most of his ability.’ He does all these things, but it does not recognise the absolute top drawer quality that he brings to any table. He is obsessed with football, and better than anyone else this allowed him to adapt to Rafa Benitez’s much maligned zonal marking system (much maligned, but also statistically the best defence from set pieces for the last two seasons, incidentally). It was this knowledge of the game that allowed him to remain a key player despite Sami Hyypia, Stephane Henchoz, Markus Babbel, John Arne Riise and Steve Finnan being brought into the club to play the position that Carragher had made his own the season before.

It is also this footballing intelligence that means he reads the game better than any other defender currently playing in the Premiership. Regular interceptions, last ditch tackles to cover other’s mistakes, and never being caught out for his famed lack of pace (save one or two Henry specials, but then who isn’t susceptible to them), suggest a man whose positional sense is second to none. It also enabled him to run a defence, often including Djimi Traore, which was tighter than any other assembled in the country two seasons ago.

The image of Carragher in the popular psyche is of a man who looks a little out of his depth, uncomfortable on the ball, red faced and bent double. That is my picture too. But what I know is that I would not swap him for any other defender in the world at Liverpool, even if some others are more athletic, are more of a danger from set pieces, and look a bit silkier on the ball.

Jamie; don’t cry for you country. The truth is, it never loved you. I do appreciate you though. Not for your workmanlike qualities, though you have them, or for your commitment, though even for an Evertonian that cannot be questioned. I appreciate you for your sheer quality. For your skill, for your brain, and for your ability. It’s just a shame that most of your country didn’t notice your brilliance.

The Branston Rabids Files x6 - file

The Adventure of the Speckled Bandit

“Did you think I would leave you crying
When there’s room on my horse for two
Climb up here Eckle don’t be crying
I can go just as fast with two
When we grow up we’ll both be soldiers
And our horses will not be toys
And I wonder …”

“Warsaw” rasped Eckle with all the force he could muster “Shut up! It’s your fault I slept in a horse trough all night anyway. Egit.”

Branston Rabids Football Club is without a manager again as …Basho Johnson, the first team coach, is taking training again and he can only speak in haiku or in koan.

Eckle, nee Hercules Profiterole, the Belgian centre-half and part-time private eye, is still not entirely convinced of the integrity of the club chairman and owner Sir Derek Tannic-Stanza.

The next manager for the Rabids after the Mourir debacle had been recalled by the manufacturers due to production flaws.

Then arrived Andre Parboiled, the bathroom window boy, from Branstons fiercest rivals; Middlinghamsborough Frost.

He came amidst a barrage of spitting and wailing from the Frost fans and broad backs from the players. While the boy had done well to bring the tepid Frost into the Premier Division he had also sowed seeds of disharmony in the dressing room and in the dressing rooms.

Though not on the empty training grounds; the players felt safest at home in the day times, within petting distance of their dearest doe-eyed squeezes rather than running about with a deputizing coach.

Sir Derek Tannic-Stanza didn’t listen to waffle and was regularly seen chortling ribaldly with Parboiled whenever the delumptious Mrs Rocket bobbled by.

Chris “Golden Plums” Rocket, Branston’s star player, had only recently got hitched.

The arrival of Miss Geletine Fluff to the WAG scene in Branston suburbia had caused quite a stir and results had suffered. Rocket was roundly appreciated when he decided to make honest men of his teammates by marrying Miss Fluff and thereby taking the tempting Gelly of the table, so to speak.

But to Sir Derek and to Andre all life was a smorgasbord.

Not long after that the newly wed Rocket had come into training with red rimmed puffy eyes, looking generally even more pre-Raphaelite than normal. After he’d collapsed in wailing sobs a few times during triangle drills Eckle took him on one side.

The others were mightily disappointed but Eckle thought it best to find out what the problem was before the difficult away game at Gorky Blu Meanies.

“Boo .. hoo.. blab, there’s someone else Eckle, I just know it.”

“Well we all have to pass sometimes Chris but it shouldn’t get you down like this man.”

“No…sob…Gelly, she’s seeing someone else, wail.”

“Oh,” said Eckle: “Oh dear, er… have you seen a doctor?”

Soaring moans from striker.

“Well, do you know who it is?”

“Bawl, the only thing she would tell me is that he’s got a spotted birth mark on his todger.”

“Er…why did she tell you that Chris? Never mind, I don’t know of anyone with a birth mark there but I haven’t being looking very closely since that awful incident last May…” Eckle tailed off, lost in his own pain for a moment.

“When I get my hands on him I’ll cauterize that bloody birth mark me self I will” said Rocket in a growing rage that looked almost masculine, from a distance.

“Now then, young man,” said Eckle: “You just sit tight for a bit and I’ll see if I can’t get to the bottom of it. Save you doing anything rash, ok?”

“Alright Eckle, thanks buddy, and talking of rashes...”

A tense couple of days go by as our Hercules uses the shower time to his best advantage. It was soul destroying work however, distancing long time friends willy-nilly and nursing swollen purple eyes without even a glimpse of the offending article.

Then he happened by a guffawing Andre Parboiled miming the style of the doggy to Sir Derek.

“… like a steam train. She said 'Thrust me, baby!'"

How they roared.

“Thrust me baby! That’s a good one!” cried the chairman through tears of laughter.

Eckle sidled past quietly, deep in thought, plotting.

He had to find a way to get rid of Parboiled before anyone else found out; otherwise they’d all want a bit of Gelly on their spoons.

In the normal way of things at Branston all they had to do was lose 3 or 4 games on the trot and the manager would be strapped to the ejector seat asap. This time, thought Eckle, it had to be done on the double; he would have to move quickly.

By half-time at Salem’s Bridge the Rabids were 17 goals down and the Belgian centre-half had achieved an individual world record of 11 own goals in a single game.

“What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” spat Sir Tannic-Stanza as Eckle went down the tunnel: “Are you mad boy?”

“Its Parboiled’s plan,” insisted the centre-half: “He says if we lull them into a false sense of security we’ll be able to pounce like a Hippo in the second half.”

“Lull them like a Hippo!” screamed Sir Derek “What the FACK are you talking about?!?!”

He stormed off in search of the manager while Eckle sucked on his lemon sweetly.

At the end of the game the Rabids had kept it down to 18-1 and Andre Parboiled had already been fired, with a brick by all accounts.

Eckle took a well deserved shower and scrubbed off the stink of his afternoons play and just as he was whistling Ra-Ra-Rasputin and picking up the soap; it hit him square between the eyes.

The spotted todger.

Eckle looked up at the smiling face of the sneaky, slight Scottish winger in shock.

Never mind, he sighed, mentalist managers were ten-a-penny but tricky dribblers were much harder to find.

I love Lycra by Mimitig - mimitig

Well folks, it’s that time of year again. For three weeks of the high summer we have, depending on your point of view, either days and days of fit young men with muscular thighs and calves, clad in skin-tight lycra defying sanity and reason, racing for over 2,000 miles round France and neighbouring countries, or a bunch of crazed drug-loonies racing for …..

Call me naïve, call me a fool, but I go for the former. Unlike last year, the start of this year’s Tour de France could not have gone better. Of the 190 riders due to start, only one did not – and the drug-related reason for Petacchi’s disqualification could hardly be more shaky if it were a sand-castle falling down as the tide comes in. As an asthma sufferer, he is registered with the authorities for the use of salbutamol, and it would appear that only the weather conditions caused him to present an illegal sample of about a nano-gramme. This is a far cry from the dramas of 2006, which saw leading contenders falling by the way-side before the Grand Depart in the wake of Operacion Puerto (still unresolved).

Waved off in the Mall yesterday by London’s mayor, Ken Livingstone, in beautiful sunshine and with crowds of about one million lining the route of the 8K Prologue course, the world of professional cycle racing breathed a sigh of relief. London had scarcely looked more stunning – for once, as commentators Paul Sherwen and Phil Liggett noted – there was no scaffolding masking the architectural treasures of the capital, and all was set for the most exciting of time-trials that I have seen for many a year. Early on Andreas Kloden set a stunning time, just over the 9 minutes and for ages this looked unbeatable. Our own Brad Wiggins rode his heart out and only missed out on a podium by thousandths of a second. At the very end, World Champ Fabian Cancellara made them all look slow, dipping below the 9 minutes and showing the world just what Swiss sportsmen are made of (or maybe just making sure Roger knew what he had to do in SW19 the following day!).

As I watched the scenes in London – so many happy people and such calm organisation, it seemed unreal that only a week before, this country had been on the highest of security alerts due to thwarted terrorist threats. It was a triumph for Ken, the public and the men in lycra. When Christian Prudhomme was interviewed by Gary Imlach and Chris Boardman at the end of the day, he could not stop smiling. His first year as Directeur – what a start.

They rolled out of Town this morning – more stunning TV shots of London (and let’s not forget that it is the French who control the broadcasting) – as our lycra-clad heroes pedalled slowly to the race start in Greenwich. Ken got to wave them off again at Tower Bridge and after a couple of Ks – covered faster by these boys than most commuters manage in cars – the race real began. It didn’t take long for Saunier-Duval’s (and Scotland’s own) David Millar to take on the pack. He led a sole breakaway for what seemed like most of the race. He was joined by a couple of Frenchmen and two others and they led the peloton through the Kent countryside. The peloton stopped off for a communal slash at about the only point on the route when the roads were not lined by an astonishing hundreds of thousands of spectators, while Paul Sherwen got all his words muddled up describing the orchards and hopfields of Kent as the “bread-basket of London”. Phil, who has commentated on the Tour for more years than I care to remember was convinced, as was I, that we’ve not seen crowds like this in the French countryside in recent years.

As the kilometres were covered, the breakaway was pulled back – the sprinters’ teams got themselves organised. Quickstep for Tom Boonen, Credit Agricole for Thor Hushovd and predictably, Predictor Lotto for the Pimpernel aka Robbie McEwen. T-Mobile should have been in it for Mark Cavendish, but a nasty crash (hitting a spectator) had put paid to the young Manxman’s dream, and one didn’t give much for the chances of the Australian either. Robbie had punctured at the start of the race, got back, only to crash – or be crashed into – a scant 18K from the finish. With only 5K to go, although his team were working feverishly, Robbie was pretty much stone last.

But this man is a wonder to behold (he had already 11 Stage wins in his Tour career), and less than 200m out, suddenly, there he was. Blazing up the right-hand side – just as we were thinking little Robbie Hunter would steal the glory – and just swept everyone away. It was one of McEwen’s best wins, and with skin torn from his leg and a damaged wrist, one could only laugh at the irony as he described himself as a “light-weight”.

David Millar got his due reward for a courageous breakaway, and canny riding for the intermediate sprints and climbs, so starts tomorrow in the Polka Dot Jersey of King of the Mountains, and in third place in the General Classification. Brad Wiggins’s brave ride in the Prologue leaves him fifth – the first time I can remember two Brits in the top 10. Robbie is resplendent once again in green and who would bet against him winning tomorrow in Ghent? It is, after all, his adopted home. Fabian stays in yellow – he now has two of those cute cuddly lions this year.

I love Le Tour de France, I love men in lycra, I love the sight of French gendarmes on duty in the streets of South London. As Phil said: “it doesn’t get much more bizarre than that.” For the Tour and for its English hosts, it doesn’t get much better than the last two days.

Sport? by Mouth of the Mersey

GU (remember them?) have chosen to cover the World Series of Poker on their Sports Blog, a editorial decision with which I concur. Other posters, predictably, have pooh-poohed poker, believing that the decision to raise, call or fold with an up and down straight draw against a likely top pair with big kicker, falls somewhat short of the Olympic ideal. That set me off on one of my favourite daydreams - what are the boundaries of this thing called "sport"?

My favourite online dictionary (dictionary.cambridge.org) feebly offers:

"sport (GAME) noun
1 [C] a game, competition or activity needing physical effort and skill that is played or done according to rules, for enjoyment and/or as a job"

That won't do at all - the "tapping your head with one hand whilst rubbing your tummy with the other" is inside that tent as is "drink ten pints then name all seven dwarves".

Wikipedia, as usual, is good, if a little woolly:

"Sport is an activity that is governed by a set of rules or customs and often engaged in competitively. Used by itself, sports commonly refer to activities where the physical capabilities of the competitor are the sole or primary determiner of the outcome (winning or losing), but the term is also used to include activities such as mind sports and motor sports where mental acuity or equipment quality are major factors. Sports are used as entertainment for the player and the viewer."

Finally, the Olympic motto:

"Citius, Altius, Fortius - Faster, Higher, Stronger".

I'm going to propose three criteria and look at what lands inside and outside my tent.

1. Competition.

Sport has clearly defined winners and losers: so that's dance out and yoga too.

2. Rules.

Sport has widely shared and understood rules: so that's business out.

3. Scoring.

Sport has clear scoring systems: faster (time); higher (tally of goals or points); stronger (knockouts). This criterion rules out a large number of quasi-sports where judging (often subjective judging) is the sole means of identifying winners and losers. Bye Bye (with no regrets) dressage; ice skating; freestyle skiing. Bye Bye (with regrets) gymnastics; diving; trampolining.

I'm pleased that poker gets in the tent as does chess, but I'm a bit ambivalent about angling and I'm very uneasy about competitive eating.

Enough of me though - what do fellow pseuds think?

Book deal?

Hello fellows and fellettes - your friendly neighbourhood media mogul here.

As the next step in the plan for global pseudification we have been talking about a book.

Thanks to your inspirational and prolific tappings we actually have more than enough material to fill one - but there are some questions.

First question - who wants one? We need to know how many to ask for. Provisional cost, about £8 - if we self publish from Lulu.com

Secondly what goes in?

I think a selection of the non-time-specific articles (i.e. the ones that are not "this happened in this game at this point" or "I think the CL will be won by Branston Rabids") seems wise (I can produce a provisional list if needed).

If you have suggestions or remember the ones you liked the bestest drop a comment here or email me (address above).

Thirdly - what are we doing about comments. Considering there are 50,000 words worth of comments on a single article here we can't include them all. There was talk of letting the author of the article pick the ones they liked best and including only those.

Oh - and we need a front cover, so get creative people.

Post all thoughts here.

The drive of my life - Ebren

Taking a corner at 100mph, drifting into a slipstream and then playing chicken with the driver alongside you into the next left-hander.

Feeling your helmet start to lift off your head along the back straight and moving from third to fourth with your foot flat on the floor as you aim for a chicane. Having the balls not to lift.

How does it feel to be an F1 driver?

Many years ago I was asked why I liked motor sport - the glib answer was always that with football, cricket, rugby and tennis I knew I would never make it. Others were already far better than I would ever be.

But driving?

This was something no one could take from me, I hadn't even taken my first lesson back then, but I had watched over 100 Grand Prix.

Then when the technology came out, I could sit in my room with an analogue joystick in my hand and pilot a 95-Williams round Monaco, Adalaide, and Suzuka.

But I had never driven a single-seater. Most of us haven't.

That ended recently when someone was stupid enough to put me in a Formula Audi car and let me loose on a track with little more than a tour of the circuit and a ten minute safety lecture behind me.

Rear wing? Check. Fat slick tyres? Check. Turbo-charged engine? Check. Engine telemetry to study afterwards? Check. Scared out of my tiny mind? Sorry, hand shaking too violently to tick that one.

Then, to make matters worse, someone came off the track ahead of me with a dirty great grin on his face and told me the car was amazing - you could just brake later, corner faster, and it would let you. It would handle it. You would back down before it reached its limits.

This man was clearly not someone who had turned "indestructible" mode on his green-and-blue 95 Benetton and used the other cars on the track to brake into the Hairpin at Hokenheim.

But I took it steady for the first lap. Very steady. Then, I started trusting the car.

Braking 50m from the corner on the back straight, not 100. Braking harder, accelerating sooner, allowing the car to run then drift out of a corner at speeds that are only legal on the Autobahn, feeling your head snap to the right and loving it.

But there was a better feeling than that, far better.

I smashed one.

Coming into a chicane I was changing into fourth, I looked down to find the right spot in the unfamiliar gearbox and by the time I realised what I was doing I was skidding over the grass towards a gravel trap.

The instructors told me afterwards they had never seen someone go that far off the track, but the car was still running.

I eased out the clutch and drove back across the grass, back to the track - I was going to nail that chicane the next time round.

And after two corners to get the gravel out of the air vents and the mud from the tyres I was racing again, flying in fact. I was not chastened by my off, I was exhilarated - Was That All the Track Had?

No, it turns out.

Running wide to take the inside line on a straight I swept past the car in ahead of me in front of the pits, getting back in line I hit the brakes later than ever and thought I might have locked up (some smoke in my left mirror) and then I saw the black flag.

Assuming it was my other-than-orthodox overtaking and driving that was being flagged I pulled up, then, shortly after stopping, the smoke caught up with me.

Fumbling with the five-point safety belt to get the hell out of the car before a) I was burned alive, and b) I was soaked in fire extinguisher fluid, I leapt from the car and got a lift back to the pits with the marshals.

What had happened - I learned later - was that while visiting the gravel trap I bent a bracket into my left-rear tyre. The damage was not enough to affect the handling (or not enough for me to notice anyway), but clouds of black tyre smoke had been pouring out the back of my car after I rejoined the track and I was probably two laps (if that) from a blowout.

Sweeping past the other car on the back straight looking like my engine was on fire was - reportedly - one of the more impressive sites for the spectators. No one filmed it.

And that was it, the best moment of the day, right there.

Walking back down the pit lane, red flame-retardant suit on, helmet in hand, helmet hair, and a sheepish grin - as your mates/colleagues applaud you in having just wiped out a racing car.

Nothing's going to come close to that for a long time.




(Me in the car - fortunately taken on the way out not the end)

The Branston Rabids Files x5 - file

A Fistful of Dogbra's

Previously at the Rabids …our lowland hero was left naked and dazed on a Mediterranean beach. Hercules “Eckle” Profiterole, the Belgian centre-half and private eye, was struggling to remember how he’d got there.

Just as Eckle was also starting to wonder how he was going to make it back to Strappon Alley, home of the Rabids, a helicopter appeared on the sand in front of him.

"Come on Eckle," beamed Sir Derek Tannic-Stanza leaning out of the door: "No hard feelings, boys will be boys, 1066 and all that. Bit of a misunderstanding don’t you know?"

"Oh, ok," said Eckle breezily and cheerily took his chairman’s hand up in to the waiting chopper.
Sir Derek plonked Eckle in the Fetid Borg rehabilitation centre and went back to his stainless steel office. After an hour of fingering his executive toy he sighed.

"Oh for a hostile takeover by an American porn star or a Russian milk magnate. Why does my door never knock-knock?"

Knock knock, there’s a knocking at his door.

"Er, yes come in," he looks up.

"Ah, harroo…?"

It was the snake-eyed exiled ex-president of Cimabui.

"Oh, Dr Toxic I was just thinking about you," said the chairman. "Come in, come in, Werthers?"

"So," said the wily business shark: "how much?"

Sir Derek sat down, cradled his fingers and started purring softly. The telephone rang.

"Stanza," he drawled: "Really? Well nice to hear from you … er… Titus, how can I help?"

"How much?" the Rabids chairman blurted: "Gosh, well I’m here with Doc Tox who may have something to say about that offer, he he," he was almost beside himself with glee, bidding war?

Just at that moment his latest long-legged incarnation of a secretary, Ms Fairy Alka-Selza, walked in with bosoms and a telegram from the Mexican bone giant Slam Haggle.

It said: "Will buy Rabids stop fistful of dogbras stop meet me at Guadalameandjulio in the desert at noon on the stop ninth stop make happy bastard stop Slam."

Tannic-Stanza had to sit down before his greedy knees gave way.

"Ah Dr Toxic perhaps you’d like to join us for a meeting on the ninth …"

Haggle had chosen the location carefully to welcome his guests to Mexico. The abandoned and crumbling lonely village of Guadelameandjulio had actually never seen better days. It had been lost somewhere in the Pinacate Desert with the tumbleweeds and the dust and no-one, before Senor Haggle, had ever gone looking for it.

Sir Derek brushed the sand off his ex-black Armani jacket for the hundredth time and mopped his growing forehead. Unfortunately the only way to get there was by pack mule, or so they had told him.

As his donkey carried him lolling into town, he noticed a movement in the bullet-ridden clock tower. He could just make out the shoulder and arm of someone there squinting back at him.

They pulled up at the broken taverna and in the shadows of an upstairs window Sir Derek thought he caught a glimpse of Doc Tox, but it was too quick to be sure. He ran a finger round his sweating neck and went into the freely ventilated bar.

He saw his host, in identical Armani black, sat waiting on the one good chair.

"Ah, Meester Stoner I’m soo pleased to meet you at last!" effused Haggle; "Welcome, welcome to the very first ICE HOTEL MEXICO! What do you think?"

"It’s very nice," said the Branston chairman not even looking around: "Did you bring the money?"

The frozen smile melted slowly from the bone merchant’s face and he gave an almost indistinguishable nod. The bell rang out in the dead desert air and Doc Tox manifested himself out of thin air right in Sir Derek’s face.

"Think of the future of the Asian market…" he smiled like a small carnivorous skunk in an oversize black Armani suit.

Then they heard the sound of angels … moaning. He turned around to see Titus Groans, the evangelist adult movie star who’d been ‘Porn Again’, naked but for a shiny rhinestone willy warmer.

"Fun for all the Branstone Families…" he nodded grinning.

"I’ll give you Diddyman Dogbra," said Slam.

The room seem to spin in front of the greedy chairman, in a heat haze he saw the bidders flashing past his eyes in a kaleidoscopic whirl that seemed to outline their various bids.

"Branston lottery…" said Doc Tox.

"Spiritual growth…" from Titus.

"Multi-storey car park…" from the Mexican.

"Pension funds …"

"Karma soccer…"

"Super-Casino…"

Just as Sir Derek was starting to teeter, as his eyes were beginning to roll, a chair was found for him. It only had 3 legs but was ok if he pressed a bit with his right foot and leaned back.

"Well, that’s all very good I’m sure…" he panted: "but how much?"

There was a shuffling of billionaires. Doc Tox gave a dry cackle.

"Not so fast Englander, where’s Dude Diligence?"

"I called him an hour ago," said Slam: "He was in a rush and he caught the wrong donkey."
There was a rolling in the hills and the ground shook to very heavy footsteps coming from far away.

"Ah, the Egg-man cometh," said Senor Haggle and Sir Derek curled a lip.

As Slam was offering Diddyman Dogbra as a sweetener, the Gorky Blu Meanies would have to have a representative present. Dogbra had been spotted playing for the Knotty Ash snuff quarry works team by a Meanies scout and he’d taken the Divisionship by storm in his first season.

The thunderous echoing in the valleys was none other than the simply enormous GBM chief executive Kiefer "The Egg-man" Banyan.

"SLAAAM!" boomed the Egg-man: "How the devil are you? Good. Howdy Des, would you like a toffee?" and he ruffled Sir Derek Tannic-Stanza’s hair playfully. The knight’s skin crawled.

Then they all loafed around listlessly for a few hours more in the heat, flies buzzing around their eyes, profits on their mind, still waiting for Dude Diligence …

When a stranger rode into town…

Well, two actually and they weren’t exactly strangers either.

Eckle wore a crushed raspberry suede Stetson with matching jacket and pants, set off by cascading diamante tassels and violent pink boots; it was a very Belgian expression of Mexican cowboy style.

Warsaw was wearing an old Brazil shirt and a huge sombrero lagging just behind on a buckled donkey.

"Wot the f’ack are you doing here?" snarled Sir Derek.

Eckle took a piece of damp paper from his inside pocket and, in a flat monotone, reminded the chairman of a clause in the ownership of Branston Rabids. The clubs founder Fagan Tannic had given the right of veto to a supporter’s representative in the event of any sale as he feared: "Some scaly arsed liming salacious fop of a Tannic wannabe future ancestor," would one day try to offload the club.

"And, prey tell," growled the albatross encumbered chairman whose big day was rapidly going down hill: "Why you felt the need to come here and tell us this?"

"Bob Tressell couldn’t make it guv’, so he sent me and Warsaw’d never seen Mexico…"

Sir Derek looked to the heavens; Eckle sat down on the one good chair and rolled up his crinoline sleeves.

They looked at the man in raspberry, he looked at them.

"Soo, who wants it then?"

"Oi!" said Sir Derek: "You can only veto a deal that I," jabbing his own chest furiously with a bony finger: "Put together!"

He looks around and realizes they are alone already; black beetley shapes are scuttling over the hills and far away, were they ever really there?

Eckle is humming softly, playing with his tassels.

Sir Derek opens his mouth with obvious violent intent, and closes it again and opens it…"Argh!" he said finally with venom as he remembered he has no cover for central defence and that it’s really Tressell he should be disemboweling.

He picked up his copy of "Gay Gas and Warfare" and stormed out to find his ass.

Warsaw, meanwhile, has been practicing his whistle; the lonely cry of The Man with No Name. It’s getting better, dogs start howling.

"Come on Warsaw, our work is done here. Let’s get back to Branston."

Warsaw doesn’t hear him, the howling’s getting louder and nearer.

"WARSAW?" shouted Eckle: "WARSAW STOP!"

But it’s too late really, there are at least thirty straining Mexican street dogs now at the windows and doors of the broken bar, they see Eckle’s sparkling tassels and, almost playfully, they charge.

"Bloody hell!" screamed Eckle: "It’s like deja Mourir all over again!"

From nowhere, it seems, there is an ear-splitting CRACK, WHiiiSHHH, CRACK, YELP. Warsaw has found a thick and vicious bull whip and the strapping black Russian looks somehow comfortable and happy lashing the beasts.

They make it outside and untie the horse and donkey but Warsaw whips too near their flanks and the panicking beasts bolt for it.

Quick as a flash Warsaw grabs a saddle and bounces one side and then the other and on to the saddle, legs akimbo holding on and heading into the sunset screaming with a gaining pack of angry dogs on his trail.

Eckle, half way up a stage post with a nasty piebald brute ragging his tassels, tries to sing the dog to sleep: "Abide with me, fast falls the eventide…"

Invincible no more - Ebren

In 2003/4 Arsenal got through an entire league season without a defeat, winning the league at a canter. They have done less well since.

Fourth and struggling to finish in the Champions League spots for the last two seasons, despite a shiny new (and very impressive) stadium and a good run in the Champions League they have seemed too fragile too often to be considered anything close to league winners or the best side in the country.

They remain, on their day, beautiful to behold - a 4-0 win over Reading immediately springing to mind. But being "good on their day" is a very long way from being good enough to end a season with a zero in the loss column.

And it's hardly surprising.

Only five players remain from the Invincibles: the increasingly veteran Lehman; Gilberto; Ljunberg - who is being linked with Portsmouth; the impressive Toure; and bit-part player Clichy.

A lot of noise has been made of Arsenal's wonderful young players - but sometimes overlooked are the players they let go.

Goal scoring and penalty-winning match-winners such as Pires, Kanu, Reyes, and Wiltord have gone. Steel has gone too. Vieira is the obvious name, but Campbell, Parlour, Edu, and Keown all added ballast to the artists ahead of them. Ashley Cole might not be the most popular man in English football - but he was in 2004 one of the best left-backs in the world.

Of course there are two names I am yet to mention - Cygan and Aliadiare.

Henry or Bergkamp weren't useless either. They were two of the finest footballers to ever ply their trade in England - or anywhere for that matter. They - along with Vieira - were the heart of Arsenal, behind large parts of two title-winning teams, with only Henry missing from Arsene's other title winners.

This triumvirate - Vieira, Henry, Bergkamp - combine the very best of Wenger teams with something more. An end product.

Other players that drove success in early years moved on - Overmars, Petit, Adams (well, the whole back four), Seaman, Wright, Anelka. But each time others came in almost as capable or better.

But you don't get better than Henry, Bergkamp or Vieira.

And that is the fear. Arsenal still play some beautiful football. Still pass and move and counter punch with immeasurable elegance. But when the pressure is on, when the game is going away from you, who will win it in this new young team?

During the unbeaten season there were a few games where it was going badly wrong. 1-0 down to Portsmouth. Pires hits the deck, Henry scores the equaliser. 1-0 down against Liverpool away, Pires scores the winner.

Edu and Henry saw Arsenal come from behind to beat Chelsea, Henry equalised against Charlton; Pires equalised against Spurs in the 69th minute; a Bergkamp strike won the game against Blackburn in December; Pires scored away against Bolton and then the winner against Southampton. Vieira equalised against Chelsea away, Edu scored the winner. Henry and Pires shared the goals to come from 2-1 down to beat Liverpool 4-2. And on the final day of the season, 1-0 down at half time Cole falls, Henry scores the penalty, before Bergkamp unleashed Vieira for the winner.

The kids are good - but away to Bolton and Blackburn in December Begkamp and Pires won the games. Against Manchester City none of the current team found the back of the net, nor could they at West Ham (twice), Sheffield United, or Everton - all these games were lost.

When you look at the skill, fight, and goal scoring ability of the players that have gone it becomes clear why Arsenal are no longer even close to invincible.

Invincibles that have left:
Henry, Bergkamp, Cole, Pires, Vieira, Edu, Campbell, Parlour, Kanu, Reyes, Aliadiere, Keown, Wiltord, Cygan

Invincibles remaining:
Lehman, Gilberto; Ljunberg, Toure, Clichy.

New players:
Fàbregas, Senderos, Rosický, Gallas, van Persie, Hleb, Denílson, Flamini, Diaby, Djourou, Adebayor, Eboué, Hoyte, Walcott, Bendtner, Song.

Chanelle, Titi and la règle hors-jeu

Regular readers of Pseuds will remember our young friend Chanelle. She has been chatting again to Zephirine.


“OMG Thierry’s leaving, Alicia and I were like speechless. Well not for long lol. But it’s like end of a thing yeah, whatsit, era. I used to love him sooo much like I had pictures of him all over my room and even though I’m older now it’s like he belongs to us what is he doing going away??? Well of course making about four million squid a year and hoping to win big shiny trophies is what he’s doing but all the same. You see this is why I used to say to Karl the football anorak, yeah, I was like don’t care so much about it Karl cos football will break your heart yeah and here is the proof.

“Cos this is my theory right, that apart from having too much importance in the universe yeah, football is like it says in poetry a cruel mistress. All these blokes are so in love with their team yeah and they give it all this loyalty and stuff and does it care? And like mathematically yeah most football fans are guaranteed to be miserable most of the time right cos only a few teams win everything and everybody else like suffers. So they’re like pouring all this emotion down the drain really, but as Alicia says yeah if they didn’t have football men would never speak to each other at all right so I suppose then the world would like grind to a halt.

“Anyway we were down the pub yeah with Alicia’s boyfriend Gavin and some French bloke he’s picked up with. Now you might remember Gavin is Mr Knows About Sport yeah, on account of that’s all they did at the Academy of Snot or whatever his posh school was called. And the frog guy seemed to be like pretty much the same. And they were arguing about some offside decision or other and like ignoring us.

“Now there is a thing where Alicia and me disagree right, which is this. Alicia’s really smart yeah, all her family’s the same they can put two and two together make five and sell it back to you for seven if you know what I mean. But when there’s blokes about she just like puts her brain away in her bag for later yeah. And I don’t see the point of that right cos who wants to be around a bloke who thinks you’re stupid? Well, her obviously lol. So when I tried to join in the conversation she kicked me a bit yeah but I carried on and then the frog guy was like “Ah, so you understand ze offside rule Chanelle?” in a really patronising voice and I’m like “Yeah”. Cos what’s so difficult yeah, Karl explained it to me, if you’re like involved in any serious action you’ve got to have more than two of the other blokes between you and the goal so like is that like complex?

“So I said what is the French for offside anyway and he said what sounded like Roger. So I thought typical frog yeah they can’t even think up their own words for stuff but as Alicia said later yeah cos she likes the French cos they had a house there she said yeah but we use their words like boutique and crème caramel so I had to admit she was right cos a world without boutiques would be a sad place lol.

“When we got back from the pub I was well pissed off with Gav and Froggo treating me like a moron yeah so I called Karl the football anorak and said like “Karl I’m soooo depressed about TH14 leaving yeah can we talk about it?” And he ran round to my place quicker than old Thierry himself so we are again an item and all’s well that, you know, whatever.”

Donington Park: Wet, not the best, but fascinating - Mimitig

This weekend The Park has again been host to the very finest of motor-cycle racers, enthusiasts and fans for the British round of MotoGP 2007. Over 100,000 visitors grace this Leicestershire race-track when the engines roar, and they come with love in their hearts for the great Tom Wheatcroft who rescued DP in the 1970s and made it into a world-famous venue. 1993 took the track into the headlines as Ayrton Senna drove to victory in what has been described as one of his best ever drives in a Formula One car - in rain that current MotoGP commentator, former tin-top driver and all-round top Aussie Charlie Cox, would describe as being of “biblical proportions”.

MotoGP arrived here earlier this week and I took time out yesterday to see what the boys were saying about the first sessions and watch an extremely exciting qualifying session. Naturally, there was no criticism of the circuit - it’s a fabulous race-track with no hugely long straights to favour horse-power, and only a little bit of the mickey-mouse stuff that is now de rigueur in high-speed motor racing of any sort. The Craner Curves must rate up there with any pieces of tarmac that these boys race on (except maybe the “Corkscrew” at Laguna Seca - the most truly heart-in-mouth place on the racing calendar). Redgate and Coppice are pretty exciting too, and it’s no surprise that “old” pro Valentino rates the circuit up near the top of his favourites. However, young Casey had a lot to say about the condition of the tarmac. Reckoned it was slippery, like riding on a greased track - as Mr Parrish said, that’ll be all the oil and fat from the burger vans then! We understand that at the latest music bash (as much as motor-sport, Donington is about music - big, loud music) the food wagons were stationed on the track itself. Well, it didn’t stop the Texas Tornado (Colin Edwards) from blasting to his second pole of the season, and our boy Vale (he has a home in London) nicely rounding out the 1-2 for Yamaha. The boy-wonder Stoner could only finish in 5th, on the second row of the grid.

On Sunday afternoon, with rain hammering it down outside my window, I rather hoped for similar weather down south. A totally wet race was bound to be exciting - they always are. A disappointment then, to find the worst sort of conditions prevailing. Drizzling rain, the track wet enough to demand full-cut wet tyres, but all signs that during the 30 laps, it would begin to dry. However, there’s always a chance of surprises at the first corner, and we did get a few. Edwards was off from pole like a harpoon but Rossi got a bit duffed up while Nicky Hayden (reigning World Champ) made up places - before chucking it off at Coppice a few laps later. Others binned it as well, including Loris Capirossi - who had been going very nicely, and GP debutant Anthony West, coming in to Kawasaki for the injured Olivier Jacques. West got back on, and having only had a couple of days testing on a GP bike, hauled himself back to 11th by the end. I think we’ll see him back for the next race.

With 15 laps to go, Edwards seemed to allow Casey Stoner past without a fight. Tyre problems beginning to bite had led to a small mistake, but it would only have been a matter of time. No one could match the Wizard from Oz on his Ducati today, and in the closing stages another Aussie, Chris Vermuelen mugged Rossi for the final podium place.

All in all, it was a bit of a damp squib of a race compared to the preceding 7, but it’s possible that we have seen the changing of the guard. Stoner rode like the veteran he most certainly is not, but it seems, this season, that he can take everything thrown at him, and answer back in spades.

Perfect 10 – Ebren

In a ten-over innings at the Brit Oval today ND Doshi explained to the world why spin is a potent force whether we are talking politics or the shortest form of cricket around.

As players, captains, coaches and fans have been getting more used to Twenty20 in the last four years, the initial stereotypes have fallen faster than the wickets of the England tail end.

Today Surrey took on Hampshire with the innings restricted to ten overs, three with restrictions, and no more than two overs per bowler.

And as soon as the field restrictions were over Surrey captain Mark Butcher brought on his spinners. Two leg-spinners in a ten over game.

Back when Twenty20 was conceived a hard-running slash and slog fest was expected. Bottom hand heavy strokes and people flaying not playing their way in. It was what was expected under the floodlights in the bright kits that were unveiled.

Flight, bounce, turn, and - most important of all - a brain were not requirements.

But today, Nayan Dilip Doshi showed how wrong those predictions were.

In front of around 20,000 fans ND Doshi took three wickets in two overs for six runs. In doing so he became the first bowler to take 50 wickets in this concentrated form of the game. He was backed up at the other end by Chris Schofield taking two for 16. In four overs they broke the back of Hampshire and effectively won the game. Bowling left arm orthdox spin.

"Sometimes the only options are the right ones," Butcher explained of his decision to play spin that early.

But Doshi was far more eloquent.

This Londoner, son of Dilip Doshi - who took 114 test wickets for India at 30.71 and 22 one day wickets at 23.81 - explained the secrets of his success.

And it was all in the mind. Out-thinking the batsman, mixing it up, watching his feet on the run-in for signs of a reverse sweep, tempting, teasing, and the pouncing.

And his were a wonderful 13 balls bowled (Doshi's second over lasted for seven balls, if it had been the regulation six his figures would have been 3 for 4). Pitched up, floated, drifting balls. Hanging in the air for and age before dropping, hitting and pitching before anyone knew what happened.

Doshi took to the crease at 36-1, and tempted Voges forward in his second delivery. Voges missed the ball completely his bails came next as Batty whipped them away. 37-2. Tremlett fell for two in Doshi's second over as the dip, flight, and straighter ball confused him and his attempted pull met fresh air. The ball found the stumps far better. The very next shot Lamb was caught behind off an inside edge. By this stage it was 46 for 6 and Hampshire were a broken team with Schofield removing Carberry and England new-boy Mascarenhas in his first over at the other end.

With the inaugural Twent20 World Cup taking place in South Africa this September we are guaranteed shots, sixes, fours and some top-notch fielding - but look out for the spinners because as Doshi proved today cricket, in any form, will always be a game of the mind, and the ability to tempt, trick and above all out-think opponents mean spin is a deadly weapon even in a ten over game.

Football transfers are meant to inflate - Margin

Every summer fans and pundits complain about rising transfer fees. This year the evidence is the £17million West Ham bid for Darren Bent, and the £18million Manchester United spent on Owen Hargreaves.

The blight of rising player fees makes fans exclaim disbelief, and pundits fret about the future. But here at Pseud’s Corner we think for ourselves, so lets celebrate the history of rising prices with a look at the past.

Alf Common - £1,000 – 1905

As one of the best young players in English football, Alf Common left Sunderland shortly after they finished football league runners-up in 1901. He moved to Sheffield United for £350 and went on to win the 1902 FA Cup, scoring in the final against Southampton. Two years later he claimed his first of three England caps, scoring twice.

Common then returned to Roker Park, and quickly left again in a transfer that rocked football.

Sunderland were considered among the big clubs of the English league in 1905. Middlesbrough were trying hard to stave off relegation. They succeeded in doing so partly thanks to an outlay of an incredible £1000 for a player who cost Sunderland a record £520 just a few months earlier.

Boro built on that survival and recorded their best ever league season in 1914, finishing third. But by then Common had moved on to Arsenal where he failed to score as they were relegated in the 1912-13 season. He then finished his career with Preston North End where he claimed a division two winners medal.

David Jack - £10,890 – 1928

David Jack has two notable firsts to his name. One is that while winning the 1923 FA Cup final with Bolton Wanderers, he became the first player to score at Wembley Stadium. The other was that he was English football’s first £10,000 player.

Jack started his career with Plymouth Argyle and moved to Bolton Wanderers shortly after. While there he won the FA Cup twice, scoring the winner in his second triumph, this time against Manchester city in 1925.

Bolton were later forced to sell their most prized asset and top goal scorer because of financial difficulties. Arsenal stepped forward and paid the amazing £10,890 in 1928, 23 years after Alf Common’s landmark move. And just like 1905, this transfer nearly doubled the previous record.

The move proved a success for Jack who joined Arsenal in a golden age under Herbert Chapman. He won the FA Cup again, and went on to win three division one titles in the early 1930s before retiring as younger players pushed him out of the team.

Jimmy Greaves - £99,999 – 1961
Denis Law - £115,000 – 1962

Jimmy Greaves and Denis Law were both the first £100,000 player in English football. And to understand this anomaly you will have to read on to Trevor Francis. In the mean time these two strikers signed for what were at the time England’s two most glamorous clubs.

Greaves had left Chelsea aged just 21 having already scored over 100 league goals. He went to Italy and AC Milan where the lack of a wage cap meant he could earn more money. Law signed for Torino that same year for the same reason, leaving Manchester City who had themselves spent a British record £55,000 on him.

The outcry at Britain’s best players leaving for Italy led to the end of the wage cap. And with that Greaves left AC Milan as their top scorer after just a few months, while Law followed Greaves shortly after.

Bill Nicholson did not want to burden his record signing’s reputation with the status of first £100,000 player. As such he agreed with AC Milan that one pound short of six figures was enough. When Law signed for Manchester United, Matt Busby dispensed with such concerns by paying a whopping £115,000.

These players became legends in what fans consider to be the golden age of both clubs. In 1963 Greaves inspired Spurs to win Britain’s first European trophy. Law then inspired the Red Devils to become the first English European Cup winners in 1968. They both went on to score more than a goal every other game for their countries making Law the current joint top goal scorer for Scotland, and Greaves third for England.



Trevor Francis - £999,999 – 1979

Nottingham Forest manager Brian Clough and Spurs manager Bill Nicholson had more in common than their legendary love of passing football. Hence, like Greaves before him, Trevor Francis did not quite earn Birmingham City the landmark seven figures that he effectively cost. Clough wanted to save his player from that pressure.

Oddly though, while Clough set the price £1 below the landmark figure Steve Daley did not become the equivalent to Denis Law 18 years earlier. His transfer from Wolves to Manchester City for £1.438million was a record, but every history book makes Francis the first £1million man.

Trevor Francis was a stunning player at a mediocre Birmingham City, and like Law and Greaves before him he won nothing until he moved. Three months after the February transfer he not only won the European Cup, but scored the winning goal in the final when he headed home John Robertson’s cross.

Sadly from that point on his Forest career went down hill. Clough tended to play him on the right instead of as centre forward; he lost the 1980 League Cup Final, and he missed the European Cup Final that year through injury. He was sold a year later.

Despite his Forest woes Francis continued to be a key figure in the England squad making more than 50 appearances, and in 1981 he moved to Manchester City and then on to Sampdoria with whom he won the Coppa Italia in 1985. He then moved to Atalanta and then Glasgow Rangers where he won his last trophy, the Scottish Cup in 1987.

Alan Shearer - £15million – 1996

Aged just seventeen, Alan Shearer broke his first record on his Southampton debut. He became the youngest scorer of a hat trick in league football, a record previously set by Jimmy Greaves in the 1950s. He also scored thirteen goals in eleven games for England U21s, and in 1992 made his debut for England, scoring alongside Gary Lineker.

That same year Shearer became English football’s most expensive player when that same year he was bought by Blackburn Rovers. The £3.6million was seemingly well spent. Having turned down Manchester United he scored 130 goals for Blackburn Rovers in just four years, 112 of which were in the league.

During his time at Blackburn Shearer won the PFA Player of the year, scored 30 league goals in three seasons, and won the Premier League. He also cemented his place as an England international, winning the Golden Boot at the European Championships in 1996.

That summer he moved to the club he supported as a boy, Newcastle United. The transfer cost Newcastle £15million, nearly twice the previous record, and although it was intended to end their long trophy drought it failed. Shearer earned runners up medals for the Premier League and FA Cup, and was voted PFA Player of the year again, but never won another trophy.

He earned 63 caps and scored 30 goals over his career, and scored a club record 206 goals for Newcastle, the last of which came in his final game for the club against local rivals Sunderland. The fact that more than 100 of those goals were league goals meant another note in history, Shearer joined Jimmy Greaves as only the second player ever to score 100 league goals for two clubs.

£100million – 2012?

Sixteen to eighteen years seems to be a fairly constant period for a 10 fold rise in English football’s record transfer. With that in mind we should plan for the next landmark to be reached in around 2013.

We can also assume a number of things about the player involved before then. He will probably be young, will almost certainly be an international if not before then after the move, and he may not actually cost as much as £100million. He will win trophies before or after the move, and would probably already hold the transfer record before the big one happens.

Realism does not talk of Rainbows - leeroycal

When you think of Steve McClaren there are a number of words that spring to mind: boring, teeth, lucky and inexplicable being but a few. But prior to the England manager's befuddling statement about the rainbow in Tel Aviv 'surreal' was never likely to be one of them. Surveying the events since last year it is surprising it was not a more obvious moniker.

Everything about McClaren's short time in the England job has been lacking in normality, starting from his comical appointment by a boss who blatantly wanted someone else to do the job. Add McClaren's decision to have tabloid rent-a-gob Venables as his number two, his numerous unfounded bleatings to the media about England's potential and his subsequent ability to see positives in the most congenitally awful performances and it suggests that he sees the world in a different manner to us normal, rational people.

This would explain why he believes Phil Neville can be transformed into an international class left-back, like one of Dali's clocks being magically bent around a tree branch; as Franz Kafka's Gregor Samsa was an insect, Steve McClaren's Steven Gerrard is in fact a left sided midfielder. Judging by his 4-3-3 against Spain it appears Steve, like Picasso and the other surreal cubists, believes in creating forms from objects that are broken up, analyzed, and re-assembled in an abstracted form. He probably has Andre Masson wallpaper in his Soho Square office.

His creative mind is at its most potent when it interprets history. England's 35 years of utter failure with the odd lucky break is to him a rich garden of achievement, liberally peppered with great players of whose legacy this generation are the inheritors. Under Steve's guiding artistic hand they will reach the heights that his staid, functionalist predecessor could not achieve.

You see, unlike Steve, Sven was a stuffy old realist who interpreted everything literally. He saw England's stifling lack of creativity, composure and tournament pedigree as reasons to be resolutely functionalist. He created a dull monolithic sculpture with a strong base, a weaker middle and a top so unimportant he could pick Peter Crouch. This behemoth could sneak results against teams who could actually pass to each other, and this would be enough for the quarter finals and £4m a year.

Portuguese and Italian league winner Sven had obviously not spent time on the Carling Cup winning Middlesbrough training ground and heard the talk of rainbows amidst the smog and mediocrity.

The Branston Rabids Files x4 - file

Little Shoppe of Bolocks Part 2

Previously on Rabids: Hercules Profiterole, the Belgian centre-half and part-time private eye, has had his nose bitten off by his manager Jorges Mourir. Most of the Branston Rabids first team are lying up in hospital but the big Melchester Roofers game is only a few hours away. Eckle has gone off to get himself a nose guard for the game and found one in the little shoppe of Mr Bolock along with a magic lightbox and a big test tube. They’ve just been discussing the business opportunities presented by an original print of the 1923 FU Cup final which was saved by the heroics of PC George Scorey and his white horse Billie.

“So, all I have to do is get his sperm in here and then come back and no time will be missing right?”

“That’s right,” said the shopkeeper.

“Bloody hell,” said Eckle, his clothes were torn and disheveled and his carefully oiled Belgian hair was all a mess.

“Oh, er…you’re back already!” said the shopkeeper.

“My God, he’s a strong bugger, do you know what I had to go through to get this?”

Eckle was breathing heavily and straightening his hair and clothes.

“Well done, man,” said Mr Bolock holding up the test tube to the light: “There isn’t very much though.”

“Not very much!” shouted Eckle “He nearly throttled me!”

“Don’t be silly, how can a horse throttle you?”

“Horse?” said Eckle.

After they had got Eckle settled down again and the little shopkeeper had washed out the test tube in yellow marigold gloves, they stood back in front of the light box and the old photograph.

“Now, big white bugger right in front of you as you go in, ok?”

“Got it,” said Eckle and allowed himself to be sucked in through the frame again. This time he slipped on the muddy pitch as he landed and before he could get up he was being trampled by hundreds of steel toed hobnails.

He fought his way vertical and marveled at the scene, hundreds of thousands of screaming fans running amok. Broad Lancs and ripe Cockney filled the Wembley air with a frenzied mayhem. Eckle pushed towards the horse thinking how different it all was than the picture; the black and grey suits, white shirts, grey caps, grey skies and pale complexion of the mill workers all in glorious Technicolor.

He reached the proud, grey, stallion and got down to work…

“Oh, er… you’re back already!” said the shopkeeper again “Ooh, that’s nasty, they’ll be able to sew it back on again right?”

Eckle thrust the warm test tube into Mr. Bolocks cold marigold and examined the muddy nose in his hand. Blood was running freely now and the shopkeeper rather curtly moved him out of the shop, stuffing the silver nose protector in his pocket.

“Do call again, good luck in the game!”

The Belgian centre-half ran back to the hospital with his battered hooter in a hankie and a big and heavy black horseshoe print on his bloodied face. Needless to say his hair was all over the place.

They had decided to hold the pre-match briefing on the ward as most of the players were there already. As soon as Eckle had been patched up by a doctor with altogether too many difficult questions, he joined the team.

“…so because of the history with Middlinghamsborough Frost we have to put out a side today…” Sir Derek Tannic-Stanza is saying.

“What? We can’t field a team, look at us” said Eckle and gestured around at the sorry invalids.

“Well, regrettably and unfortunately this is what I’ve been explaining Hercules. If we don’t show up then we’ll be fined a shit load and have points deducted, we’re not safe yet you know.”

“Well I’ll definitely play, I’ve got an antique silver nose guard” he shows it around the team to admiring groans “but most of this lot can’t.”

“You’re too young to remember the blitz me lad. Back then we knew what team spirit was about I can tell you, ‘cos my father has told me many stories and I listened, boy, I listened. We have to muck in and stick together, the show must go on.

"Now, Mrs Glossop, Edie, how’s that cruciate ligament of yours?”

By 3 O’clock they had a team on the pitch, just. There was a last minute panic when it turned out that Mrs Glossop was in fact owned by two South American companies and was contractually unable to fill her position on the wing.

Sir Derek himself went into the stands and plucked out a startled 7 year old girl called Mary to plug the gap. But even then it was a ramshackle old team and it depended a lot on Jaws being able to move his crutches quickly enough in goal.

Although Branston Rabids went ahead early when Mary beet Marcos de Janero to a diving header, Melchester Roofers quickly asserted themselves and a torpid game finished 1-4 to the Melcs.

Eckle helped the shuffling Wilfrid Brambell off the pitch dejectedly.

“Thanks for your help Wilf and don’t worry about that young Wooosh Roobit, he’ll be fine by the time England need him next. You play a tough game old timer.”

“Ay? Naa, fack off.” Said Mr. Brambell.

Later, after showers Eckle decided he was going to go and see Sir Tannic-Stanza personally. As he approached his stainless steel office he could hear voices.

“…a packet I can tell you, saved 80 grand on first team wages, ha ha ha, ha, and made another 300 g’s on the bet, brilliant!” the chairman was boasting.

“You don’t mind betting against your own team?” asked a smooth and well-dressed Italian voice.

“It’s a god eat god world Poppi and we all have to eat, non?”

Eckle couldn’t believe his ears, he was Gallically outraged and started to stride towards the office when “BAFF” the lights went out and he slipped into the sort of unconsciousness that comes of a brick on the back of the head.

One minute office furniture the next naked in a rocky cove on a deserted island off Sardinia; it had been one of those days, thought the Belgian centre-half groggily.

41 Seconds From Glory, or Why I Hate Mark Hughes - leeroycal

Mark Hughes is a respected figure in football, a glittering career as a player has led to managerial achievements and he is universally liked as a man and as a professional. I however am an Oldham Athletic fan, so I hate him.

Under Joe Royle, the Latics dared to dream for five glorious years between 1989 and 1994, we had cup final and semi-final appearances, goals galore and finally promotion to the first ever Premier League season in 1992 . When Sky TV invested millions in football broadcast rights I doubt the trendily-spectacled creatives wanted the image of a sweaty, ugly, ginger, balding Andy Ritchie running on a treadmill as part of their prime marketing push. Our elevation gave them no choice in the matter.

Oldham stayed in the top division that first season on goal difference thanks to a typical humdinging 4-3 win against Southampton on the final day. The 1993-94 season was an equal struggle, but we did put a decent FA Cup run together, bringing us face to face with Manchester United in the semi to be held at Wembley.

The game itself was so turgid that I half expected Leonard Cohen to be the half-time entertainment, but this all changed in the second period. From a corner, United keeper Schmeichel dropped the ball and Oldham full-back Neil Pointon, fresh from a tour as the lead singer of Iron Maiden, smashed the ball in. All we had to do now was hold on. And hold on we did, until 41 seconds from the end.

Brian McClair hoofed the ball over his head into the area and as the ball dropped over Mark Hughes' shoulder, and while four feet in the air and parallel to the ground, he scored one of his specials by volleying it full blooded into the top corner of Jon Hallworth's net. To this day I am convinced that he dislocated his leg to hit the ball it was so improbable a strike. United went absolutely bananas, but for us it was the end of our season.

We had a tough run-in to face in our attempt to stay up, but that one strike laid waste to our fight and our desire. If you watch the slow-motion replay, as Sparky peels away to celebrate you can actually see the souls of the Latics players drop out of the bottom of their shorts. We were hammered 4-1 in the replay.

The ripples of this moment could not have been in more stark contrast for each club. United had until this point been struggling for recent form, they had lost the League Cup to Aston Villa, and indifferent League performances threatened their push for the title. Following Hughes' volley, they put together a run of wins that secured the League and then the Double by defeating Chelsea in the final. They have done alright since as well I think.

Oldham spent the rest of the season looking like they were running through treacle, and when the drop came it was as painful as it was inevitable. Captain Mike Milligan left for Norwich and centre-back Richard Jobson went off to reform The Skids. Joe Royle himself took the Everton job in the autumn and the club then dropped once more two years later. There have since been liquidation scares, bungled takeovers and more managers than a branch of McDonald's.

Still, at least we're not Leeds.

Good riddance Maradona: Argentinos Juniors '85 season - Pipita

Argentinos Juniors, 1985 South American Champions - The benefits of Maradona’s departure

Selling Diego Maradona to Boca Juniors in 1981 almost cost Argentinos Juniors immediate relegation. In the very last game of the Metropolitan tournament of that year, Argentinos, second from bottom in the league, faced one of the big five of Argentine football, San Lorenzo, who were just one point above them. This game would therefore settle the second relegation place, and Argentinos were naturally forced to win. A goal scored by Carlos "el loco" Salinas, one of the players received from Boca as part of the Maradona transfer, sealed the relegation of San Lorenzo to division two for the first time in that club’s history.

The fact that Argentinos had received a significant amount of cash and four very useful players from Boca, amongst which Salinas and the classy midfielder Mario Zanabria were the most talented, did not seem to be enough to minimally compensate Diego’s departure. In 1980 Argentinos had enjoyed the best season in the club’s history finishing runners up for the first time ever in the Metropolitan championship, with Maradona scoring more than forty goals during that whole year.

After a pretty grim middle-of-the-table season in 1982, things gradually began to brighten up with the arrival as coach of former River Plate legend Angel Labruna at the beginning of 1983. Having recently enjoyed tremendous success at that club winning six titles during 1975-81, Labruna was brought in to liven up the spirit at Argentinos after Diego’s departure. At a time when the then Argentine national Coach Carlos Bilardo was persistently emphasizing the futility of using wingers, Labruna decided to base his new team’s tactics on a classic 4-3-3 scheme playing two very fast wingers up front.

Former Velez Sarsfield striker Pepe Castro played on the right wing and the relatively unknown Carlos Ereros was purchased from a Mendoza team to play on the left. Centre forward Carlos Pasculli, later to score Argentina’s winning goal against Uruguay in the 86 World Cup, benefited enormously from the speed and accurate crosses of those two wingers. In order to make this attacking minded scheme more effective, Labruna had very wisely decided to "rent" a pitch with much wider dimensions than the Argentinos one. The Nearby Ferro Carril Oeste stadium was considered more suitable for this purpose, and for the next twenty years it would stage Argentinos’s home matches.

Labruna reinforced the rest of the team with a couple of former River veterans, JJ López and Morete, and two other players he had coached at that same club defender Pavoni and the versatile utility midfielder "Nene" Commisso. Mario Olguin, who played full back in Argentina’s 1978 World Cup winning team, provided extra quality to the defense, and a talented but somewhat lazy midfielder also purchased from a Mendoza team, "Panza" Videla, added skill to the team. At the heart of the midfield a key player emerged from the junior ranks: "el checho" Batista, also to become world champion with Argentina in 1986.

By the time of Labruna’s sudden decease in late 1983, the team had already found its momentum. Cesar Menotti’s former assistant coach Marcos Saporiti was named new manager in early 1984, and immediately made it clear that he would not in any way alter the team’s attacking mentality nor would he modify the squad inherited from Labruna. Argentinos went on to win the metropolitan championship of 1984, the club’s first league title, and consequently won the following Nacional tournament. This second championship was achieved after Saporiti had already left and was replaced by new coach "Piojo" Yudica, who stuck to the same players and tactics.

When Argentinos embarked on their first ever Libertadores Cup campaign in 1985, a major change occurred in the forward line: Pasculli left for Italy and the promising and highly talented Carlos “Bichi” Borghi was promoted to replace him. Borghi was not such a “goalscoring machine” as Pasculli, in fact scoring was to be one of his main deficits, but his tremendous skill, sophisticated passing and great understanding with Videla, allowed Castro and Ereros to get into scoring positions more often than before. After eliminating Rio de Janeiro teams Vasco and Fluminense, Argentinos defeated the Libertadores Cup holders Indpendiente in two memorable semi-finals and went on to beat América de Cali in the final on penalties after a third match play-off. The "icing on the cake" for this team was, however, to be a cup final they eventually lost: the Intercontinental Cup game in Tokyo against Juventus.

Borghi’s performance during that encounter was so sublime that Silvio Berlusconi shortly afterwards decided to purchase him for Milan. Argentinos dominated most of the match and Ereros’ and Castro’s goals twice put Argentinos ahead, only for Platini and Laudrup to equalize. After a spectacular two-all draw, Juve won on penalties, but Argentinos captured everyone’s hearts. After all, this modest club had reached the zenith of international football, a feat that somewhat ironically they would probably never have achieved with Maradona.

Big Norman , thank you - byebyebadman

On June 17th it was twenty-five years to the very day. In the Estadio La Romareda in Zaragoza, Spain, Northern Ireland and Yugoslavia kicked off in the opening round of the 1982 World Cup. The game was a desperate nil-nil draw in front of a half-full stadium containing scores of local Spanish soldiers let in for free. It would be one of the best forgotten games in the history of the World Cup, but for one fact. The Northern Ireland number sixteen, at seventeen years and forty-one days old, had become the youngest player ever to play in the World Cup.

Norman Whiteside exploded into the public consciousness that summer with a string of outstanding performances to help propel Northern Ireland to within a game of the semi-finals. When he returned to Manchester United the following season records tumbled at his feet as if the words ‘youngest ever’ were destined to append his name. He became the youngest ever man to play in the League Cup Final, the youngest ever player to score (courtesy of Cruyff-turning one Alan Hansen) in the League Cup Final in a defeat to Liverpool, the youngest player to score in the FA Cup Final as United overcame Brighton and the youngest player to score for Northern Ireland.

Adulation followed along with inevitable George Best comparisons that Whiteside rightly dismissed. Modest to a fault he would not countenance comparison with anyone in the game past or present, as proved by his recent appearance at the parade of legends in he Cup Final at Wembley. In an interview he questioned his right to be on the pitch in such illustrious company, which is utterly ridiculous – asides from his efforts as a precocious teenager, he also scored the winning goal in the 1985 FA Cup Final. No star can continue to ascend at such a trajectory though, and the fall was rapid.

The legendary drinking culture at Old Trafford in which Norman was ensconced was identified by the incoming Alex Ferguson as a major factor in keeping United from the title and he set out to eradicate it. Whiteside began to fall out of favour but ultimately it was a growing list of injuries that prompted his controversial transfer to Everton in 1988. In three years at Goodison Park he managed only twenty-nine appearances and after a thirteenth knee operation in 1991 the surgeons told him his career was over at twenty-six.

Prior to the great influx of money into English football and having jettisoned education for the game this was a nightmare scenario. To his eternal credit he did not wallow in self-pity, trade off his considerable fame or drink himself into oblivion. He went back to school. His lengthy spells in the treatment room had awakened an interest in podiatry, but with no qualifications he had to start on the bottom rung of the ladder – GCSE’s, going back to study with children half his age, raising his hand in class to answer basic questions on physics and biology. He swallowed his pride and worked his way through the system. A levels followed by stints at Salford and Manchester Universities would eventually earn him a BSc Honours in Podiatry at the age of 32. Now working in association with the PFA, he has been a practising podiatrist for longer than he was a professional footballer.

According to the club’s official website, Norman Whiteside is not a Manchester United legend, which is based on either four hundred appearances or more or around one hundred goals plus. Yet there are some of us of a certain vintage for whom Norman means everything – more than the trinity of Best, Law and Charlton, more than even Edwards, Robson, Cantona or Keane. Why? Because he reminds us of a certain point in our lives, of our youth? Because he represents something the game has lost? Partly yes, but for me there is an added frisson. I feel like I owe him.

I can trace a line back through all the experiences I have had with football to a definitive moment on 18th May 1985. Incredible times for English football, just one week after the Bradford Fire and eleven days prior to Heysel. United are down to ten-men in extra-time of the FA Cup Final against a great Everton team. Whiteside picks the ball up on the right wing, cuts infield, jinks, feints and then curls a glorious shot around Van den Hauwe and Southall to secure the unlikeliest victory. Ron Atkinson is jumping around looking like an ecstatic second-hand car salesman who has just sold a troublesome Ford Escort. Big Norman, looking exhausted, is mobbed by his team, unknowingly having hit the peak of his career at barely twenty years old. With that act of simple heroism it is there, right there, that I fell in love with football forever.

The football sociologist John Williams reasons that the game is so popular because its simplicity and natural balance of skill and physical commitment allows a freedom for individual expression and moments of heroic endeavour. Football will endure because there will always be the game, there will always be players and it will always provide heroes. Every impressionable youth will have their Norman Whiteside.

A Rae of Sunshine - Mimitig

I bet you were all thinking about another motorsport piece on Lewis Hamilton. After all, he's just won again in Indianapolis on the world-famous Speedway, and extended his World Championship lead at the same time as turning the screws on his team-mate Alonso. But no.

I want to celebrate the maiden victory for Jonathan Rae in his home race at Mondello Park today in the British Superbike Championship. Young Rae is only 20 years old, and has had a rather dodgy record of recklessness and crashing in his brief senior career in motor-cycle racing. To be honest, his junior record was mostly about crashing too! But Honda have shown faith, and this is now being repaid.

HM Plant are accustomed to nurturing champions - Neil Hodgson maybe the best known of these - after all he became World Superbike Champion just a few years ago. Don't you just remember the celebrations when he won? It was glorious - Who's The Daddy? on his T-shirt over the leathers as he did his celebration lap.

Well this boy from Ballyclare may be the next big thing. No British biker has made an impact on MotoGP - the highest level of racing - but next week young Rae will be guesting at Donington and after his win this weekend, who would be prepared to say that he will be out-classed?

And in a postscript, the winner of the first race was Leon Haslam - Rocket Ron's son. He's still only 22 even though he's been around forever. Wait til the MotoGP bosses come calling for him.

I have written all of this from memory and can nothing to back up my stats! All I can find is that Neil won for Ducati. So now a chance for everyone to weigh in and put me right on facts.