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.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
The Branston Rabids Files x4 - file
Little Shoppe of Bolocks Part 2Previously 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.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
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.
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.
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.
Monday, June 18, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, June 15, 2007
The Branston Rabids Files x3 - file
Little Shoppe of Bolocks – Part 1It’s the morning of the big game with Melchester Roofers and the bulk of the Branston Rabids first team squad are ‘stable’ in their own ward at Branston General Hospital.
Hercules “Eckle” Profiterole, the Belgian centre-half and private eye, has had his nose bitten off by a savage Portugazi and the club chairman looks strangely smug.
The local A&E staff had worked their fingers to the bone in a pandemonium of players, their agents and family, press, police and fans the previous night. Fending off reporters and supporters and jabbing everyone with rabies shots, seaming endless stitches, reattachments and wrapping of miles of bandages.
A surprising amount of pain killers were being consumed too, thought the ward sister, who was a rugby fan.
Those conscious and not hallucinating saw Jorges Mourir once more, live on TV news, getting shot with a tranquilizer dart by the RSPCA. It, they agreed, was a shame; he’d been the best manager they’d had in ages.
He was already being linked with the vacant Gorky Blu Meanies job.
Eckle had tried half-heartedly to marshal the troops but eventually given up until the morning.
[The etymology of the Rabids name surprisingly predates this incident, though it is thought by some to be prescient. The club's founder, and great grandfather of the present owner, Sir Fagan Tannic, came from a long line of wealthy industrialists.
Their family business was one of many mysterious things to have come out of the shadowy corners of the dark ages; the recycling of rabbit condoms that underpinned the giant multinational that is today’s Rabbit Brand Corp.
Unfortunately in 1869 when the club sent its erstwhile tea lady to register with the newly formed Football Union, she had had a horrid head add dose cold. No amount of screaming ‘Rabids I tell you, Rabids!’ could convince the clerk and even her frantic bunny impressions were misconstrued. A succession of spiteful FU officials had refused to change it ever since, hence Branston Rabids it is.
Incidentally, the multinational arms were given to Sir Derek Tannic-Stanza’s four elder sisters while he was left only with a knighthood and a football club with rising damp.]
The next morning Sir Derek was in early, checking under the players’ bandages, sneezing, loosening the odd stitch here and there.
"Morning all," he said breezily "how are my honed Adoni today then?" The slight Scottish winger winced and let a tear hit his cheek as the chairman ripped off his ear bandage again, ear and all.
"Nurse!" Yelled Rocket.
The morning morphine was kicking in and Hercules Profiterole decided to go out in to town to see about finding a nose guard.
In a side street off a back road, near the canal, Eckle noticed a dirty little old shop he had never seen before. He saw the sign under the grime "A Little Shoppe of Bolocks" it said, Eckle read it twice. Through the thickly crusted windows he could only make out that it was some kind of antique shop but just as he was about to walk away he saw a shining silver nose plate.
He pushed the creaking door open with the "Tink" of a broken bell and immediately found himself in the middle of all manner of dusty sporting memorabilia and bulging paraphernalia.
Old trophies and medals in boxes, caps, armbands, signed photos and Figurine Panini albums, a complete set of West Indies touring athletic supports (unwashed) were draped over gloves and shin guards, shirts, boots and a mounted display of Accrington Stanley lucky heather.
As if by magic the shopkeeper appeared, he was a short and balding man in a striped pinafore.
"Good morning sir," said the man.
"Good morning to you," Eckles replied.
"If I’m not mistaken you are a Rabid man are you not sir?"
"I am and," Eckle and paused for effect "...he he! Are you Mr. Bollocks then?"
The round faced man stiffened slightly. "It’s pronounced Bo – lock if you don’t mind. Are you looking for anything in particular or just perusing the annals of history?"
"Not really into annals as it happens, or history, I can’t even remember where I left me fags. I just came in to look at that old nose protector in the window."
"Oh yes, a lovely piece that, rumoured to have belonged to a descendant of Ethelred the Unready. We have many titbits that might awaken your historical curiosity, what about this, it’s an original print of the first FU Cup final at Wembley."
"Oh, I saw that. The Gorky Blu Meanies won didn’t they?"
"Noo, not the new Wembley the original Wembley, don’t they have Wembley where you come from?"
"No we don’t, who’s that then?"
"Ah, that’s PC George Scorey."
"That’s a fancy name for a horse," said Eckle.
"No the copper, the horse was called Billie, its called The White Horse Final now you know."
"Did he win then did he? Did he? Heh!"
"No, Bolton won, but they single-handedly kept 200,000 fans in order. Djunno he wasn’t even on duty that day?"
"Who the horse?"
"No the copper."
"So why did he have his horse with him then?"
"I don’t know."
They chatted gaily away like this for a while and then the conversation turned to Mr Bolock’s business partners who could do wonders with in vitro fertilization and the possibilities presented by an unusual light box in the back room.
"Ye what? You’ve got a magic light box that can send me back in time so’s I can collect his sperm for your mate? Yer mad, man! Heh!"
"Well that nose plate is solid silver and it would probably be worth a few thousand to a collector you know, what if we called it payment?" said the wily antiquarian.
"A few thousand you say. Hmm." Eckle rubbed his Belgian chin "And I’d definitely be back in time for this afternoons match?"
"Oh yes, the time you spend in the… er …light box doesn’t count here, you’ll be back as soon as you left."
"Mmm, well alright then, where is it? Back there?"
The little shopkeeper pulled back a heavy green velvet curtain to reveal a shining light box in the centre of a gloomy ante-room.
"That’s right," he said with a little smile "just put the picture on the box. Oh, you might need this," and he handed Eckle a very large test tube.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Year of the Cat?- levremance
It’s been a topsy-turvy AFL season so far and the premiership race is wide open. Eleven rounds remain in the minor round for the wheels to fall off or to get a season back on track. In the race for September here’s how they’re placed at the turn.
Geelong with 8 wins 3 losses and a superior percentage leads the way. The Cats have added a much-improved defensive action to their free-flowing style of football and are a big chance to end a 44-year premiership drought. Jimmy Bartel and Gary Ablett Jr are in single figures with the bookies for the Brownlow medal.
West Coast is second, also with 8 wins. Time out for key on-ballers has hardly affected normal service and captain Chris Judd remains unstoppable. Ben Cousins, who is back from rehab, made a nationally televised ‘mea culpa’, which, to many, was long on the mea but a little short on the culpa. He must agree to a raft of conditions, including regular drug testing, before returning to the fold.
Hawthorn’s buddy system seems to be working. It goes like this. When in doubt kick it to Buddy. Lance ‘Buddy’ Franklin that is. The emerging centre-half forward kicked a bag of 9 against Essendon and 6 last round against Sydney in a losing side.
Essendon, second last in 2006, are fourth behind the Hawks. Recruits Alwyn Davey and Mal Michael have added pace and strength respectively to allow old hands Lucas, Lloyd, Hird and Fletcher to show their class. Consecutive 1-point wins over the Swans and West Coast has confounded the tipsters.
Collingwood’s army is on the march and the Magpies sit in fifth place at the mid-season break. Despite injuries to key players, the Woods have maintained their good form and the mix of youth and experience has brought results. At their best they can give the flag a shake come September.
The Kangaroos, who started favourites for the wooden spoon, round out the four teams on 7 wins and 4 losses. Despite suffering three straight losses at the start of the year they recovered with 5 wins on the trot and on current form will make the eight.
Sydney, while similarly placed to their 2005 premiership year, have their problems. The new ‘hands in the back’ rule has rendered bustling forward Barry Hall anachronistic, dual Brownlow medalist Adam Goodes’ form is enigmatic and running halfback Tadgh Kennelly popped his kneecap again in Saturday’s win over Hawthorn. The Swans head a group of four on 6 wins and 5 losses
Adelaide’s tortuous training regime, devised by former Australian cycling coach Charlie Walsh has, theoretically at least, made the Crows the fittest team in the AFL. If they can ever get their best 18 out of rehab, that is. Two preliminary final defeats in a row and an aging list mean that 2007 may be their last shot at glory for a while. My guess is that it’s going to be a while.
The Western Bulldogs lie just outside the eight on percentage. While the Scraggers boast perhaps the second best midfield in the competition they lack marking power and rely too heavily on Brad Johnson in attack. When the run-and-carry game is denied them they know no other way home.
Port Adelaide was on top after 6 rounds but has stumbled since. Old time wharfies would be horrified that the Power has been labeled ‘soft’ and the switch to indirect ‘tempo’ footy has been a waste of time in more ways than one.
Fremantle’s ill-disciplined acts have seen them lead the league in players fronting the AFL tribunal. Mercurial forward Jeff “The Wizard” Farmer stands out with a 6-match ban for eye gouging followed by a 7-week club imposed ban for assaulting a Mt Lawley nightclub bouncer. Still the Dockers came home with a wet sail last year and they’re only a game outside the eight.
Brisbane has seen retirements and salary cap pressures reduce the ‘Kings of the Jungle’ to prey. The ‘Gabbatoir’ is feared no more. Early wins made some believe that the heydays were back but a draw against lowly Richmond is all that followed giving them 4 and a half wins.
Carlton’s played in 5 of the 6 highest scoring games this season. Problem is they’ve lost 3 of them. The Blues can entertain all right but they just can’t defend. If they can plug a leaky defence they could storm home.
St Kilda is down and out on Fitzroy Street and looking for an angry fix, metaphorically speaking of course. Off the field, the president is suing the ex-coach over an unpaid loan and the one-time best mates can’t stand each other. On the field, a plethora of soft tissue injuries means the highly rated playing list never gets on the park.
Melbourne supporters were throwing the chains in the back of the Range Rover for a winter in the chalet at Crackenback before the Demons snapped a 9 game losing streak with 2 straight wins. One more loss however, and its back to the glu-vine and the snow bunnies.
Richmond have 10 losses and a draw and that means they have plenty of time to decide who they take with the number one draft pick. Coach Terry Wallace mused before the season that the Tigers wouldn’t see success until well into next decade. Others are less hopeful.
Geelong with 8 wins 3 losses and a superior percentage leads the way. The Cats have added a much-improved defensive action to their free-flowing style of football and are a big chance to end a 44-year premiership drought. Jimmy Bartel and Gary Ablett Jr are in single figures with the bookies for the Brownlow medal.
West Coast is second, also with 8 wins. Time out for key on-ballers has hardly affected normal service and captain Chris Judd remains unstoppable. Ben Cousins, who is back from rehab, made a nationally televised ‘mea culpa’, which, to many, was long on the mea but a little short on the culpa. He must agree to a raft of conditions, including regular drug testing, before returning to the fold.
Hawthorn’s buddy system seems to be working. It goes like this. When in doubt kick it to Buddy. Lance ‘Buddy’ Franklin that is. The emerging centre-half forward kicked a bag of 9 against Essendon and 6 last round against Sydney in a losing side.
Essendon, second last in 2006, are fourth behind the Hawks. Recruits Alwyn Davey and Mal Michael have added pace and strength respectively to allow old hands Lucas, Lloyd, Hird and Fletcher to show their class. Consecutive 1-point wins over the Swans and West Coast has confounded the tipsters.
Collingwood’s army is on the march and the Magpies sit in fifth place at the mid-season break. Despite injuries to key players, the Woods have maintained their good form and the mix of youth and experience has brought results. At their best they can give the flag a shake come September.
The Kangaroos, who started favourites for the wooden spoon, round out the four teams on 7 wins and 4 losses. Despite suffering three straight losses at the start of the year they recovered with 5 wins on the trot and on current form will make the eight.
Sydney, while similarly placed to their 2005 premiership year, have their problems. The new ‘hands in the back’ rule has rendered bustling forward Barry Hall anachronistic, dual Brownlow medalist Adam Goodes’ form is enigmatic and running halfback Tadgh Kennelly popped his kneecap again in Saturday’s win over Hawthorn. The Swans head a group of four on 6 wins and 5 losses
Adelaide’s tortuous training regime, devised by former Australian cycling coach Charlie Walsh has, theoretically at least, made the Crows the fittest team in the AFL. If they can ever get their best 18 out of rehab, that is. Two preliminary final defeats in a row and an aging list mean that 2007 may be their last shot at glory for a while. My guess is that it’s going to be a while.
The Western Bulldogs lie just outside the eight on percentage. While the Scraggers boast perhaps the second best midfield in the competition they lack marking power and rely too heavily on Brad Johnson in attack. When the run-and-carry game is denied them they know no other way home.
Port Adelaide was on top after 6 rounds but has stumbled since. Old time wharfies would be horrified that the Power has been labeled ‘soft’ and the switch to indirect ‘tempo’ footy has been a waste of time in more ways than one.
Fremantle’s ill-disciplined acts have seen them lead the league in players fronting the AFL tribunal. Mercurial forward Jeff “The Wizard” Farmer stands out with a 6-match ban for eye gouging followed by a 7-week club imposed ban for assaulting a Mt Lawley nightclub bouncer. Still the Dockers came home with a wet sail last year and they’re only a game outside the eight.
Brisbane has seen retirements and salary cap pressures reduce the ‘Kings of the Jungle’ to prey. The ‘Gabbatoir’ is feared no more. Early wins made some believe that the heydays were back but a draw against lowly Richmond is all that followed giving them 4 and a half wins.
Carlton’s played in 5 of the 6 highest scoring games this season. Problem is they’ve lost 3 of them. The Blues can entertain all right but they just can’t defend. If they can plug a leaky defence they could storm home.
St Kilda is down and out on Fitzroy Street and looking for an angry fix, metaphorically speaking of course. Off the field, the president is suing the ex-coach over an unpaid loan and the one-time best mates can’t stand each other. On the field, a plethora of soft tissue injuries means the highly rated playing list never gets on the park.
Melbourne supporters were throwing the chains in the back of the Range Rover for a winter in the chalet at Crackenback before the Demons snapped a 9 game losing streak with 2 straight wins. One more loss however, and its back to the glu-vine and the snow bunnies.
Richmond have 10 losses and a draw and that means they have plenty of time to decide who they take with the number one draft pick. Coach Terry Wallace mused before the season that the Tigers wouldn’t see success until well into next decade. Others are less hopeful.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Football disunited - Margin
This week I conducted an accidental social experiment. I got some school friends, university friends, and some colleagues together for a birthday meal and a night out.
With latecomers we numbered 19, and it turns out my friends are a diverse bunch. Around half had post or under graduate degrees in subjects like textile design, archaeology, history*, economics and fashion.
We were publishers, nurses, council staff, writers*, unemployed, and (whisper it) a lawyer.
We numbered Atheists*, Christians, Agnostics and Hindus, homosexuals, heterosexuals*, baritone choir singers, rockers* and house clubbers.
One went to public school, three private, two religious school, and the rest went to bog standard comprehensives*.
Most were from my native South East of England, but some hailed from New Zealand, Mauritius and Rochdale.
We may not quite have been the cosmopolitan height of modern Britain, but we were not far off. So we let our divisions unite us with talk of non league football.
There was some mention of Pilates and Yoga. There was more talk of house buying, relationship and job talk. We reminisced and bitched about old times and old friends, and speculated about when dessert would arrive.
But it was football that really divided us.
We largely split between West Ham, Spurs* and Arsenal, along with a lone Kingstonian voice in the otherwise Premiership crowd. The one Liverpool fan spent his time embarrassing a hen party at another table, and the sole Man City follower sobbed into her soup that Big Sam should have chosen them.
And so the conversation flowed.
We discussed the detail of Luton Town’s governance. They were owned by a bastard who stole their money until fans bought the club’s creditors. They then called in the debt while organising a boycott so as to take control of the club on the cheap. A new ground is finally being built and the new ‘owners’ have a contract that gives control back to the fans if attendances fall (under another boycott).
We discussed Chelmsford City’s large crowds since moving to the Melbourne Athletics Stadium. Last season they drew an average attendance of 1001 in the Ryman Isthmian Premier Division. That is the seventh tier of English football, putting Chelmsford as far behind Rochdale as Rochdale are behind Manchester United. Their travelling support even outnumbers the home crowd at some away games.
We discussed the upturn in fortunes at Exeter City where Spurs legend Steve Perryman is Director of Football. He lost a good manager to his former club’s youth academy recently but has seemingly replaced him an excellent new man in Paul Tisdale.
And we discussed Kingstonian, who sadly were not as lucky Luton Town fans when faced with a bastard in charge. They were subjected to high debts, the sale of their players, and were made homeless when AFC Wimbledon of all teams took their ground. They went on to be relegated three times from their Conference high to the Ryman Isthmian Division one South – one division below Chelmsford City.
And so with religion, race, sex, sexuality, class and hair colour to divide us, an Italian restaurant in Soho offered a glimpse of utopia. Everyone was happy and fed - and for one off-season afternoon there was no Premiership.
* = Margin's place in the crowd.
With latecomers we numbered 19, and it turns out my friends are a diverse bunch. Around half had post or under graduate degrees in subjects like textile design, archaeology, history*, economics and fashion.
We were publishers, nurses, council staff, writers*, unemployed, and (whisper it) a lawyer.
We numbered Atheists*, Christians, Agnostics and Hindus, homosexuals, heterosexuals*, baritone choir singers, rockers* and house clubbers.
One went to public school, three private, two religious school, and the rest went to bog standard comprehensives*.
Most were from my native South East of England, but some hailed from New Zealand, Mauritius and Rochdale.
We may not quite have been the cosmopolitan height of modern Britain, but we were not far off. So we let our divisions unite us with talk of non league football.
There was some mention of Pilates and Yoga. There was more talk of house buying, relationship and job talk. We reminisced and bitched about old times and old friends, and speculated about when dessert would arrive.
But it was football that really divided us.
We largely split between West Ham, Spurs* and Arsenal, along with a lone Kingstonian voice in the otherwise Premiership crowd. The one Liverpool fan spent his time embarrassing a hen party at another table, and the sole Man City follower sobbed into her soup that Big Sam should have chosen them.
And so the conversation flowed.
We discussed the detail of Luton Town’s governance. They were owned by a bastard who stole their money until fans bought the club’s creditors. They then called in the debt while organising a boycott so as to take control of the club on the cheap. A new ground is finally being built and the new ‘owners’ have a contract that gives control back to the fans if attendances fall (under another boycott).
We discussed Chelmsford City’s large crowds since moving to the Melbourne Athletics Stadium. Last season they drew an average attendance of 1001 in the Ryman Isthmian Premier Division. That is the seventh tier of English football, putting Chelmsford as far behind Rochdale as Rochdale are behind Manchester United. Their travelling support even outnumbers the home crowd at some away games.
We discussed the upturn in fortunes at Exeter City where Spurs legend Steve Perryman is Director of Football. He lost a good manager to his former club’s youth academy recently but has seemingly replaced him an excellent new man in Paul Tisdale.
And we discussed Kingstonian, who sadly were not as lucky Luton Town fans when faced with a bastard in charge. They were subjected to high debts, the sale of their players, and were made homeless when AFC Wimbledon of all teams took their ground. They went on to be relegated three times from their Conference high to the Ryman Isthmian Division one South – one division below Chelmsford City.
And so with religion, race, sex, sexuality, class and hair colour to divide us, an Italian restaurant in Soho offered a glimpse of utopia. Everyone was happy and fed - and for one off-season afternoon there was no Premiership.
* = Margin's place in the crowd.
Look, we get it, you're the new Maradona, now stop already - Ebren
"He's the new Maradona" – how often have we heard that?
Ortega, Riquelme, Saviola, Tevez – in fact any small, young, Argentine forward gets this label.
And they all fail to live up to it. One after the other these wonderfully gifted young men have been exposed to the media glare and shrunk back, returning to Argentina, or drifting through minor European clubs winning little.
But one player was determined not to live down to this. Not to accept that the spotlight will shift.
So he has taken Maradona's book, his guide, and decided to follow it.
Top player in the youth cup – check.
Barcelona – well, Saviola and Riquelme had done that before – but to miss out on the Euro Cup in such style? Check.
Score a ridiculous goal from the half way line – check.
Team in danger of throwing away the championship, score a handball – check.
But from here young Lionel has a few things left to do.
So far he has yet to win Serie A with an unfashionable club, or to drive his country to success at the World Cup.
Then there is the descent into womanising, alcoholism, the dependence on illegal drugs, and the ballooning weight, and the stolen plastic penis to consider.
So, my advice to Mr Messi - don't stay the new Maradona for long, just because millions consider him the greatest player to have played, does not mean you want to be like him in all things.
The handball in a key game is a good time to stop.
Ortega, Riquelme, Saviola, Tevez – in fact any small, young, Argentine forward gets this label.
And they all fail to live up to it. One after the other these wonderfully gifted young men have been exposed to the media glare and shrunk back, returning to Argentina, or drifting through minor European clubs winning little.
But one player was determined not to live down to this. Not to accept that the spotlight will shift.
So he has taken Maradona's book, his guide, and decided to follow it.
Top player in the youth cup – check.
Barcelona – well, Saviola and Riquelme had done that before – but to miss out on the Euro Cup in such style? Check.
Score a ridiculous goal from the half way line – check.
Team in danger of throwing away the championship, score a handball – check.
But from here young Lionel has a few things left to do.
So far he has yet to win Serie A with an unfashionable club, or to drive his country to success at the World Cup.
Then there is the descent into womanising, alcoholism, the dependence on illegal drugs, and the ballooning weight, and the stolen plastic penis to consider.
So, my advice to Mr Messi - don't stay the new Maradona for long, just because millions consider him the greatest player to have played, does not mean you want to be like him in all things.
The handball in a key game is a good time to stop.
Of course he won - Ebren
In October 2001 I started rowing, I trained hard, worked on my technique, hit the gym and worked with my crew and coach to make us as good as we could be.
In June 2002 we raced competitively, five times in four days, got promoted and won "blades" - something only ten per cent of rowers manage over their careers.
I was asked if I was happy with the achievement, I wasn't. All I had done was avoid disappointment.
We had trained to be better than those around us and the promotion and oar with my name on it on the clubhouse wall were the natural result of this.
Yesterday Lewis Hamilton won his first Formula One race. Grinding every other driver under his heel. First in qualifying, then in the first stint, then every time the safety car came out to remove the lead he had built up.
But the prevailing emotion after the victory sense was not surprise, it felt normal. Normal that this 22-year-old had dominated a field of the best drivers on the planet. A field of Grand Prix winners and former and world champions. Normal that this result pushed him eight points clear in the drivers' championship. Normal that he had done it in his sixth race in his first season in the sport.
In the press conference afterwards he was happy - of course - but calm. Collected. In control. Just like he has been in every race this season.
He has lost it once - a crash in Monaco - but he simply failed to notice this. And watching him four-wheel drift a car around this famous track, inches from the walls, to try and out-qualify his team mate (the double and reigning world champion) in a heavier car a few hours later was the thing that made me really sit up. In fact, it was the first thing in an F1 race that has got me out of my seat in the sport for a very long time.
He races the car, slides it drifts it, out-brakes men racing in their hundredth grand prix, holds his nerves under pressure as people with lighter cars ride his rear wing to try and pass and attack his team-mate's position.
And yet he remains a likeable, intelligent, good-looking, modest person. One who seems to take the sport and winning in his stride - simply because that's the way it's meant to be.
From the first time he stepped behind a wheel he has been the best on the track, and he has worked hard to stay there. This is normal. Why should F1 be any different?
It's just a shame he isn't four years older - to see him take on Schumacher in his pomp would have been a sight to behold.
In June 2002 we raced competitively, five times in four days, got promoted and won "blades" - something only ten per cent of rowers manage over their careers.
I was asked if I was happy with the achievement, I wasn't. All I had done was avoid disappointment.
We had trained to be better than those around us and the promotion and oar with my name on it on the clubhouse wall were the natural result of this.
Yesterday Lewis Hamilton won his first Formula One race. Grinding every other driver under his heel. First in qualifying, then in the first stint, then every time the safety car came out to remove the lead he had built up.
But the prevailing emotion after the victory sense was not surprise, it felt normal. Normal that this 22-year-old had dominated a field of the best drivers on the planet. A field of Grand Prix winners and former and world champions. Normal that this result pushed him eight points clear in the drivers' championship. Normal that he had done it in his sixth race in his first season in the sport.
In the press conference afterwards he was happy - of course - but calm. Collected. In control. Just like he has been in every race this season.
He has lost it once - a crash in Monaco - but he simply failed to notice this. And watching him four-wheel drift a car around this famous track, inches from the walls, to try and out-qualify his team mate (the double and reigning world champion) in a heavier car a few hours later was the thing that made me really sit up. In fact, it was the first thing in an F1 race that has got me out of my seat in the sport for a very long time.
He races the car, slides it drifts it, out-brakes men racing in their hundredth grand prix, holds his nerves under pressure as people with lighter cars ride his rear wing to try and pass and attack his team-mate's position.
And yet he remains a likeable, intelligent, good-looking, modest person. One who seems to take the sport and winning in his stride - simply because that's the way it's meant to be.
From the first time he stepped behind a wheel he has been the best on the track, and he has worked hard to stay there. This is normal. Why should F1 be any different?
It's just a shame he isn't four years older - to see him take on Schumacher in his pomp would have been a sight to behold.
Saturday, June 9, 2007
The Free Olympics - file
Words are cheap and opinion costs less.
There should be a Free Olympics. These words were chosen with care and attention to clarity and meaningful expression of an opinion that is gaining momentum in the international discussion on drug-free sport.
Free from restrictions over which performance enhancing chemical substances can be taken.
It shouldn’t be surprising that this is being suggested, but it is. The hyperbolic War on ‘Drugs’ rationale has clouded the issue in any rational discussion over ethics and strategy on this issue.
A direct by-product of historical McCarthyism this meaningless and ineffectual shadow of political morality has cast almost impenetrably dark clouds over world opinion from the rise of globally dominant American ideology to the present day.
What exactly are the moral differences between the chemicals in carrots and steroids or coffee and amphetamines?
Everything we ingest has a chemical definition and affects us in some way. The pharmacological definition of the word drug lists its functions and doesn’t differentiate between them; likewise the common usage of the word includes medicine and mushrooms.
Even the term ‘natural’ is irrelevant; cocaine is a naturally occurring substance as are carrots, our performance might benefit from the judicious use of carrots or cocaine. And many of the same people who will complain about synthetic performance drugs will be concomitantly slurping on their beef and carrot cup-a-soups.
Whether you agree with recreational or performance drugs or not you should be wary of the politicians’ rhetoric because exaggeration and simplification only brush the issues under the carpet. History proves that prohibition doesn’t solve anything; it doesn’t even provide much of an obstacle.
The basic anti-doping principles of sport were laid down in 1967 by the International Olympic Committee:
1. protection of the athletes' health
2. respect for medical and sports ethics
3. ensure an equal chance for everyone during competition.
There is no reason here to distinguish between performance enhanced sport and non, except that the rules should be the same for everyone. Therefore the codes should be separated; a Free Olympics AND a Drug-Free Olympics.
1. The argument that athletes would risk their lives by taking more and more dangerous drugs doesn’t carry any weight. This article is promoting responsible and professional scientific research, practice and advance not chemical abandonment. Athletes, humans, have always pushed themselves to the extremes. It is the very same fundamental motivation that drives human excellence in all fields, not just sport, and it should be developed and encouraged. Be all that you can be.
2. Enhancing performance safely through transparent scientific research and practice doesn’t challenge any medical ethics and the only sports ethic should be one of equality for all within agreed rules.
3. An equal chance for everyone is not being achieved by prohibition, the only answer is segregation.
It might even be argued that it’s impossible to have a level playing field anyway.
Think of the economic and social disadvantages of a Sudanese to an American and their nutritional and genetic consequences not to mention their appetite for or opportunity to excel at sport. Think of German or Swedish attempts at eugenics…
Nothing immoral in drugs just like there’s nothing sinful about political sympathy, gender, colour or race. It’s all spin; transient politically manipulated morality.
Parity is the real issue here, not drugs or morality. Therefore the solution should address that and not get caught up in culturally unilateral and historically fickle politics. Zero tolerance is an effective strategy in some affairs and it might also be a feature of the Drug-Free Olympics, especially as a Free Olympics would offer a fair alternative to cheating.
Perhaps those who pontificate freely and brashly on this topic would do well to look at their own colleagues and ask who stops journalists from being all they can be by taking performance enhancing drugs. The police?
Is it right and fair that writers, journalists (and other professionals) might benefit from performance enhancing drugs while athletes and sportsmen may not? Particularly when sports are freely described as art…
Hunter S. Thompson, William S. Borroughs, Will Self, Lord Byron; Ben Johnson, Diane Modahl, Thomas Hicks, Festina, Lance Armstrong. Hard to say that these folk were on a level pitch.
Drugs in journalism; also dangerous if unsupervised, also gives an unfair advantage in a competitive field, also changes the nature of the competition, also illegal, also chosen by many despite the risks, ‘immorality’ and illegality.
Ultimately there is nothing different about performance drugs than any performance strategy. If there was an open debate, scientific development and free competition it wouldn’t change the fact that only the most exceptional athletes would win in either code.
Free the Olympics from cheats; celebrate drug-free sport and also explore vigorously chemically enhanced human potential. It will probably be superseded by genetically engineered athletics anyway!
There should be a Free Olympics. These words were chosen with care and attention to clarity and meaningful expression of an opinion that is gaining momentum in the international discussion on drug-free sport.
Free from restrictions over which performance enhancing chemical substances can be taken.
It shouldn’t be surprising that this is being suggested, but it is. The hyperbolic War on ‘Drugs’ rationale has clouded the issue in any rational discussion over ethics and strategy on this issue.
A direct by-product of historical McCarthyism this meaningless and ineffectual shadow of political morality has cast almost impenetrably dark clouds over world opinion from the rise of globally dominant American ideology to the present day.
What exactly are the moral differences between the chemicals in carrots and steroids or coffee and amphetamines?
Everything we ingest has a chemical definition and affects us in some way. The pharmacological definition of the word drug lists its functions and doesn’t differentiate between them; likewise the common usage of the word includes medicine and mushrooms.
Even the term ‘natural’ is irrelevant; cocaine is a naturally occurring substance as are carrots, our performance might benefit from the judicious use of carrots or cocaine. And many of the same people who will complain about synthetic performance drugs will be concomitantly slurping on their beef and carrot cup-a-soups.
Whether you agree with recreational or performance drugs or not you should be wary of the politicians’ rhetoric because exaggeration and simplification only brush the issues under the carpet. History proves that prohibition doesn’t solve anything; it doesn’t even provide much of an obstacle.
The basic anti-doping principles of sport were laid down in 1967 by the International Olympic Committee:
1. protection of the athletes' health
2. respect for medical and sports ethics
3. ensure an equal chance for everyone during competition.
There is no reason here to distinguish between performance enhanced sport and non, except that the rules should be the same for everyone. Therefore the codes should be separated; a Free Olympics AND a Drug-Free Olympics.
1. The argument that athletes would risk their lives by taking more and more dangerous drugs doesn’t carry any weight. This article is promoting responsible and professional scientific research, practice and advance not chemical abandonment. Athletes, humans, have always pushed themselves to the extremes. It is the very same fundamental motivation that drives human excellence in all fields, not just sport, and it should be developed and encouraged. Be all that you can be.
2. Enhancing performance safely through transparent scientific research and practice doesn’t challenge any medical ethics and the only sports ethic should be one of equality for all within agreed rules.
3. An equal chance for everyone is not being achieved by prohibition, the only answer is segregation.
It might even be argued that it’s impossible to have a level playing field anyway.
Think of the economic and social disadvantages of a Sudanese to an American and their nutritional and genetic consequences not to mention their appetite for or opportunity to excel at sport. Think of German or Swedish attempts at eugenics…
Nothing immoral in drugs just like there’s nothing sinful about political sympathy, gender, colour or race. It’s all spin; transient politically manipulated morality.
Parity is the real issue here, not drugs or morality. Therefore the solution should address that and not get caught up in culturally unilateral and historically fickle politics. Zero tolerance is an effective strategy in some affairs and it might also be a feature of the Drug-Free Olympics, especially as a Free Olympics would offer a fair alternative to cheating.
Perhaps those who pontificate freely and brashly on this topic would do well to look at their own colleagues and ask who stops journalists from being all they can be by taking performance enhancing drugs. The police?
Is it right and fair that writers, journalists (and other professionals) might benefit from performance enhancing drugs while athletes and sportsmen may not? Particularly when sports are freely described as art…
Hunter S. Thompson, William S. Borroughs, Will Self, Lord Byron; Ben Johnson, Diane Modahl, Thomas Hicks, Festina, Lance Armstrong. Hard to say that these folk were on a level pitch.
Drugs in journalism; also dangerous if unsupervised, also gives an unfair advantage in a competitive field, also changes the nature of the competition, also illegal, also chosen by many despite the risks, ‘immorality’ and illegality.
Ultimately there is nothing different about performance drugs than any performance strategy. If there was an open debate, scientific development and free competition it wouldn’t change the fact that only the most exceptional athletes would win in either code.
Free the Olympics from cheats; celebrate drug-free sport and also explore vigorously chemically enhanced human potential. It will probably be superseded by genetically engineered athletics anyway!
Pseud-O-Maniacs
Pseud-O-Maniacs
Present
Triffic
T's
We’ve got more than 40 designs now in our gallery and it’s time to decide
what on earth we are going to do next.
http://picasaweb.google.co.uk/fileofacks/PseudsCornerTShirts
Present
Triffic
T's
We’ve got more than 40 designs now in our gallery and it’s time to decide
what on earth we are going to do next.
http://picasaweb.google.co.uk/fileofacks/PseudsCornerTShirts
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Poll Position - 50KaWeekSub
This week saw the professional passing of Graham Poll – a man I’m sure that many people would love to see the back of – good riddance, hasta la vista, you could even send him send him 3 leaving cards. Poll and controversy have seemingly been bedfellows for eternity with headlines following him as frequently as a Drogba dive. Graham Poll will be remembered, demonised and ridiculed but almost certainly not missed – except that is by me:
Monday night a saw a documentary that highlighted this much maligned figure as a likeable, confident, articulate and surprisingly sensitive human being - how many footballers can we put in that bracket?
One comment (in the doc) that summed up Poll’s profile comes from the effeminate co-com voice of Mark Lawrenson in another piece of inspired journalism, “I’m sure that Graham Poll will have the last word,” when describing an on-field altercation. Nothing wrong in this comment you might say – but why shouldn’t refs have the last word. Why should the Rooney’s, Keane’s, Ferguson’s have sole moaning rights both before, during and after the game. Lawrenson isn’t the only pundit who criticises referees but co-commentators and pundits are typically ex-players with axes to grind when it comes to the men in black and referee barracking is a tiresome cliché even for a washed up ex-pro like Lawro .
Since his “passing” Poll has been criticised in many quarters for having the audacity to question Brian Barwick and the FA with many exposing him as an attention seeker. He has also been described as an arrogant and publicity obsessed whore with no thoughts about the consequences of his hideous personality. If that is the case then what adjectives do we use to describe Jose Mourinho, Joey Barton or career breaker turned new media darling Roy Keane?
Let’s think about Graham Poll - he didn’t start an illegal war on false pretences followed by a farewell tour, didn’t commit perjury - he didn’t even lie. My message to Graham Poll is this: Yes you made some mistakes, yes you liked the limelight but yes you were the best in the profession and for that I would like to thank you Mr Poll and apologise on behalf of the fans, yobs, media, players and managers who abused and continue to abuse you. I wish you a lucrative and long overdue break from the game that you love – you deserve it – unlike many in the corrupt and poisoned chalice profession that is football. You may even have a biography worthy of the name.
Monday night a saw a documentary that highlighted this much maligned figure as a likeable, confident, articulate and surprisingly sensitive human being - how many footballers can we put in that bracket?
One comment (in the doc) that summed up Poll’s profile comes from the effeminate co-com voice of Mark Lawrenson in another piece of inspired journalism, “I’m sure that Graham Poll will have the last word,” when describing an on-field altercation. Nothing wrong in this comment you might say – but why shouldn’t refs have the last word. Why should the Rooney’s, Keane’s, Ferguson’s have sole moaning rights both before, during and after the game. Lawrenson isn’t the only pundit who criticises referees but co-commentators and pundits are typically ex-players with axes to grind when it comes to the men in black and referee barracking is a tiresome cliché even for a washed up ex-pro like Lawro .
Since his “passing” Poll has been criticised in many quarters for having the audacity to question Brian Barwick and the FA with many exposing him as an attention seeker. He has also been described as an arrogant and publicity obsessed whore with no thoughts about the consequences of his hideous personality. If that is the case then what adjectives do we use to describe Jose Mourinho, Joey Barton or career breaker turned new media darling Roy Keane?
Let’s think about Graham Poll - he didn’t start an illegal war on false pretences followed by a farewell tour, didn’t commit perjury - he didn’t even lie. My message to Graham Poll is this: Yes you made some mistakes, yes you liked the limelight but yes you were the best in the profession and for that I would like to thank you Mr Poll and apologise on behalf of the fans, yobs, media, players and managers who abused and continue to abuse you. I wish you a lucrative and long overdue break from the game that you love – you deserve it – unlike many in the corrupt and poisoned chalice profession that is football. You may even have a biography worthy of the name.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
The Branston Rabids Files x2 - file
The Hound of Baskerville Athletico – Part 2Previously on Hound of Baskervile...
Jorges Mourir, the ex-Baskerville Athletico manager has just joined Branston Rabids Football Club. It’s a mixed blessing; his track record speaks for itself but so does his air of putrefaction.
The black-eyed chairman Sir Derek Tannic-Stanza has got the first team squad to sign injury disclaimers and Hercules “Eckle” Profiterole, the Belgian centre-half and private detective, smells a fish.
Jorges Mourir was late for training the next morning, leaving Basho Johnson, first team coach and twin brother of Boris, in charge to kick it off.
Ever since an unfortunate touchline run-in with Professor Moray-Arsey, the Gurning Emirs manager, Basho has only been able to speak in haiku or koan.
"Nanny? Nay never.
"Train free young fooballets with
"No Nike nanny"
He said and with a wry smile and a sigh, his eyes returned to the sky.
The players are used to this and take it as a sign to start kicking balls around randomly. Eckle and Warsaw go over to the touchline and start practicing last minute sliding tackles from behind on the slight Scottish winger.
20 minutes later when everyone is knackered and a card game has been set up behind the shower block, they hear:
"Arrr," cough, splutter: "Arrrr, come on Rabids let’s go! Arrr."
Mourir looked even worse than yesterday, his eyes red and bulging and reeking of decomposing moles.
"PASSION!" he spits with venom: "Branston Rabids are all about passion, yes?" he slapped Chris Rocket hard on the back leaving Chris winded and gasping. "Five-a-side eberyone, no prisoners yes?"
They amble, run and then pelt headlessly around the five-a-side pitches, driven by an increasingly maniacal Mourir.
"Arrr, you, numpty. Arrr, run, push, live with your heart and die, DIE!!" he slavered at Warsaw. "Is passion?" he squealed "Passion, PASSURrrghh."
He fell over clutching his throat and foaming at the mouth. He rolled around for a minute as the players gathered for a laugh. Then he calmed down.
"Er…are you alright?" said Eckle: "Would you like some water?"
"Arrgghh, no, no," said Jorges: "Its ok, ok, thanks." He mustered a frothy yellow smile which sent a shiver down the spine of the team. "I was bitten by a dog before I left Portologo and it’s starting to sting a bit."
He rolled up his left trouser leg to reveal his half-eaten calf, festering and fermenting. Eckle saw the bubbling and hissing pustules of frothing flesh and the black and green gangrenous bits and looked up at the pale face of Mourir.
"It’s only a scratch," said the manager: "Mr Stanza want me to start quick so I come, now," CLAP CLAP: "BACK TO WORK, RUN, DIE FOR BRANSTON!"
But when the slight Scottish winger missed the ball five minutes later the Portugazi jumped on him and sank his teeth into his wee pink ear. Like a mad Iberian hound he tore and ripped and gored and then stood over the limp Glaswegian frothing pink bubbles from his mouth and roaring.
The entire midfield just stood and looked at him and before they could think of anything better to do Mourir had passed among them, verily, like a rabid fox in a chicken coup.
Through the spray and mist of fizzing arteries Eckle noticed Basho running away screaming “Aaaah, the sound, the sound of one tooth biting,” and that Warsaw was the only one trying to stop the crazed continental shouting "Red card ref! Red card! Ref?"
Mourir, now crouching and circling, snarling and snapping, was on to him in a fell leap at Warsaw’s neck. Eckle jumped into action and pulled the managers face back and over and down. But Jorges bounced straight back into Eckle biting hard on the central defenders nose, growling.
When Warsaw finally hit him, with all the force of a Trans-Siberian express train, he flew howling fully 15 metres away, still with Eckle’s beak between his teeth.
Jorges was not yet gorged and bounded off to bury his fangs into the fleeing left buttock of the inside right, and then on for a squealing apprentices forearm. The open-nostriled Eckle gave chase, stuck out a sliding leg and tripped his manager into the goal post with a ‘TUNK!’ and a slow downwards slide.
Apart from some groaning it all went a bit quiet after that.
Then came the sirens; press, police, paramedics, in that order.
As it turned out the Authorities were aware that quarantine laws had been contravened and that there was a possibility of a rabies incident, but were inclined to let it slide as Baskerville Athletico were, after all, a very good team.
Despite the pain and the blood Eckle was mostly just worried about how they were going to patch a team together. The big game with Melchester Roofers was only 24 hours away and most of the squad had rabies.
He was eventually lifted into one of the ambulances, clutching his nose in a sock in his hand. He could only breathe through his mouth as his nose hole was stuffed up with blood and bandages but he still saw the pitch haired chairman, Sir Tannic-Stanza, laughing triumphantly into his Bluetooth.
Dodgy, thought the Belgian through squinting eyes, very dodgy…
The Velodrome - byebyebadman
Hugues had been a companion the last time I had seen a rugby match, and the circumstances could not have been more different. Sometime over the Christmas period two years ago we sat in near Siberic conditions at Edgeley Park in Stockport to watch an awful contest between Sale and Bath. The icy wind tore through us, making our teeth chatter in symphony. Who won? Who cares. A chilling experience, in every sense of the word.
I went to visit my sister Louise, Hugues and my new-born niece Emily this weekend in Pelisanne in the Provence region of France. As a surprise a trip to the Velodrome in Marseille had been arranged to watch the semi-finals of the French rugby championship between Stade Toulouse and Montferrand.
At this point I will admit to a little scepticism – not just because of the Stockport experience, but I have always found attending rugby matches, a passionless experience. I have seen Welsh internationals at the old Arms Park, where the pre-match singing and banter was exceptional, but the subsequent hammering dished out to the home team soon sucked the atmosphere dry. I also lived in New Zealand for a year and followed Wellington for a season, yet the abiding memory is one of row upon row of empty seats, in the country where love of rugby is said to be imprinted on the soul of the population. I even saw the All Blacks, thinking that surely was where the hysteria resided, but never has so little atmosphere been provided by so many for so few.
Sceptical as I may be I would never return a gift and this was also sisterly-approved man-time between Hugues and I. We parked by the old port in Marseille and made our way to the Joliette station on the Metro. As our train departed there were a few in the yellow and blue of Montferrand and a couple in the red and black of Toulouse around us. With each passing stop, they multiplied – ten, twenty, fifty, two hundred until each carriage was awash with colour. The rivalry was obvious, with both sets taunting each other, but there was a camaraderie as well; before we reached the final stop of Ste Marguerite Dromel the train erupted with a vibrant rendition of – appropriately enough – the Marseillaise.
As we stepped into the huge concrete salad bowl of a stadium Hugues turned to me and proudly announced ‘You are in the Stade Velodrome.’ I had mentioned several times down the years that I would like to go, but my visits had never coincided with an Olympique Marseille home game. As I caught my first glimpse of the pitch I remembered what had happened there. Francescoli, Boksic, Voller and even our own Chris Waddle had played regularly; Bergkamp scored his wonder goal against Argentina at one end; Platini, Tigana, Giresse et al defeated Portugal in 1984 in one of the epic internationals of all time.
That was football though, and today was about rugby. We were in the Montferrand section amidst a sea of yellow and blue flags. Interestingly, there were I would estimate a dozen different designs at least, flags from different seasons and generations, not the product of some supplied-on-the-day merchandise by the club and the sponsors. I found that heartening. The stadium itself was unimpressive, with cramped rows of dusty blue seats, litter everywhere and perimeter fencing to cage in human beings like cattle. Unfortunately for me a rather rotund French gentleman in the adjacent seat was sat partially on me – on the one occasion he chose to break wind, I could feel the aftershock through his thigh…
This turned out to be a minor discomfort as it became clear most of the match would be spent on our feet. The Toulouse fans made the initial racket, soon countered by a thunderous din from our (I have to be Montferrand; apart from the seating, they wear the blue and yellow of Warrington) end. Two songs in particular were on constant repetition – the cry of ‘TOU-LOU-SE!’ to the 3/3 beat of some deafening drums, counteracted by “Montferrand, allez, allez, allez!’ to the tune of Yellow Submarine. Hugues told me beforehand that these were the two best supported teams in France, and it was already clear that this would be unlike any rugby game I had ever been to.
Amidst the carnival, a game ensued. It had hitherto been a blustery, overcast day but as if to signal the match may begin the wind ceased and the clouds parted, illuminating the now packed stadium in glorious Mediterranean sunshine. The game was tense, tight and, predictably, bogged down in rugby’s red-tape of scrums, lineouts, rucks and mauls. despite the early boon of the first try Montferrand looked pretty ineffective, and by half-time Toulouse had mercilessly kicked their way into a 15-7 lead.
There was a despondency in our end during the break, the general consensus being that Toulouse were too strong, the Montferrand backs bouncing off their defence like flies hitting a windshield. Hugues, who knows far more about rugby than me, saw no way back. Such a despairing situation is an opportune moment for a piece of off-the-cuff brilliance.
Early in the second-half Montferrand’s international winger, Aurelien Rougerie, picked the ball up deep in his own half and ran at Toulouse. He slipped past one tackle, then another, suddenly breaking clear of the red and black swarm. In full flight he gracefully rounded the full-back and touched the ball down despite a thumping tackle on the line. Amazing.
Often a set of supporters will, as one, detect a shift in momentum and ram the advantage home. The noise from the Montferrand fans became overwhelming and visibly, unquestionably lifted the players. A penalty sent them into the lead; a dropped goal increased the advantage. The fans in red and black were barely audible now. Toulouse were gone, and everyone in the stadium knew it.
The game ended farcically, the hooter sounding during a lull whilst a Toulouse player lay injured, then restarted several minutes later from a scrum which Montferrand kicked high into the crowd. At the whistle the Montferrand players went almost as crazy as the fans, doing a lap of honour and then perching themselves precariously on the fencing, singing in unison with their public, shaking their hands, wearing their scarves. Hugues and I stayed to soak up every last second.
We negotiated the Metro comfortably and returned to to the car. As we started to head back to Pelisanne, I asked Hugues to clarify something that had seemed a little strange – were the Montferrand players' celebrations not just a touch excessive, given that this was a semi-final?
“No,’ Hugues replied, ‘they are happy now because when they get to the final, they always lose.’
I laughed – I’m not sure Hugues understood why – and we pulled onto the motorway and left Marseilles and the Velodrome behind us.
I went to visit my sister Louise, Hugues and my new-born niece Emily this weekend in Pelisanne in the Provence region of France. As a surprise a trip to the Velodrome in Marseille had been arranged to watch the semi-finals of the French rugby championship between Stade Toulouse and Montferrand.
At this point I will admit to a little scepticism – not just because of the Stockport experience, but I have always found attending rugby matches, a passionless experience. I have seen Welsh internationals at the old Arms Park, where the pre-match singing and banter was exceptional, but the subsequent hammering dished out to the home team soon sucked the atmosphere dry. I also lived in New Zealand for a year and followed Wellington for a season, yet the abiding memory is one of row upon row of empty seats, in the country where love of rugby is said to be imprinted on the soul of the population. I even saw the All Blacks, thinking that surely was where the hysteria resided, but never has so little atmosphere been provided by so many for so few.
Sceptical as I may be I would never return a gift and this was also sisterly-approved man-time between Hugues and I. We parked by the old port in Marseille and made our way to the Joliette station on the Metro. As our train departed there were a few in the yellow and blue of Montferrand and a couple in the red and black of Toulouse around us. With each passing stop, they multiplied – ten, twenty, fifty, two hundred until each carriage was awash with colour. The rivalry was obvious, with both sets taunting each other, but there was a camaraderie as well; before we reached the final stop of Ste Marguerite Dromel the train erupted with a vibrant rendition of – appropriately enough – the Marseillaise.
As we stepped into the huge concrete salad bowl of a stadium Hugues turned to me and proudly announced ‘You are in the Stade Velodrome.’ I had mentioned several times down the years that I would like to go, but my visits had never coincided with an Olympique Marseille home game. As I caught my first glimpse of the pitch I remembered what had happened there. Francescoli, Boksic, Voller and even our own Chris Waddle had played regularly; Bergkamp scored his wonder goal against Argentina at one end; Platini, Tigana, Giresse et al defeated Portugal in 1984 in one of the epic internationals of all time.
That was football though, and today was about rugby. We were in the Montferrand section amidst a sea of yellow and blue flags. Interestingly, there were I would estimate a dozen different designs at least, flags from different seasons and generations, not the product of some supplied-on-the-day merchandise by the club and the sponsors. I found that heartening. The stadium itself was unimpressive, with cramped rows of dusty blue seats, litter everywhere and perimeter fencing to cage in human beings like cattle. Unfortunately for me a rather rotund French gentleman in the adjacent seat was sat partially on me – on the one occasion he chose to break wind, I could feel the aftershock through his thigh…
This turned out to be a minor discomfort as it became clear most of the match would be spent on our feet. The Toulouse fans made the initial racket, soon countered by a thunderous din from our (I have to be Montferrand; apart from the seating, they wear the blue and yellow of Warrington) end. Two songs in particular were on constant repetition – the cry of ‘TOU-LOU-SE!’ to the 3/3 beat of some deafening drums, counteracted by “Montferrand, allez, allez, allez!’ to the tune of Yellow Submarine. Hugues told me beforehand that these were the two best supported teams in France, and it was already clear that this would be unlike any rugby game I had ever been to.
Amidst the carnival, a game ensued. It had hitherto been a blustery, overcast day but as if to signal the match may begin the wind ceased and the clouds parted, illuminating the now packed stadium in glorious Mediterranean sunshine. The game was tense, tight and, predictably, bogged down in rugby’s red-tape of scrums, lineouts, rucks and mauls. despite the early boon of the first try Montferrand looked pretty ineffective, and by half-time Toulouse had mercilessly kicked their way into a 15-7 lead.
There was a despondency in our end during the break, the general consensus being that Toulouse were too strong, the Montferrand backs bouncing off their defence like flies hitting a windshield. Hugues, who knows far more about rugby than me, saw no way back. Such a despairing situation is an opportune moment for a piece of off-the-cuff brilliance.
Early in the second-half Montferrand’s international winger, Aurelien Rougerie, picked the ball up deep in his own half and ran at Toulouse. He slipped past one tackle, then another, suddenly breaking clear of the red and black swarm. In full flight he gracefully rounded the full-back and touched the ball down despite a thumping tackle on the line. Amazing.
Often a set of supporters will, as one, detect a shift in momentum and ram the advantage home. The noise from the Montferrand fans became overwhelming and visibly, unquestionably lifted the players. A penalty sent them into the lead; a dropped goal increased the advantage. The fans in red and black were barely audible now. Toulouse were gone, and everyone in the stadium knew it.
The game ended farcically, the hooter sounding during a lull whilst a Toulouse player lay injured, then restarted several minutes later from a scrum which Montferrand kicked high into the crowd. At the whistle the Montferrand players went almost as crazy as the fans, doing a lap of honour and then perching themselves precariously on the fencing, singing in unison with their public, shaking their hands, wearing their scarves. Hugues and I stayed to soak up every last second.
We negotiated the Metro comfortably and returned to to the car. As we started to head back to Pelisanne, I asked Hugues to clarify something that had seemed a little strange – were the Montferrand players' celebrations not just a touch excessive, given that this was a semi-final?
“No,’ Hugues replied, ‘they are happy now because when they get to the final, they always lose.’
I laughed – I’m not sure Hugues understood why – and we pulled onto the motorway and left Marseilles and the Velodrome behind us.
Monday, June 4, 2007
"Hurray! Fantastic! We Love it!" - Margin
Londoners have bad taste and judgement. We knew the Palace of Westminster was ugly and needed replacing. Monument was a pointless waste of money. And forks in the Middle Ages were Satan’s tridents.
We hated the neon boards at Piccadilly, derided our large clean bendy busses, and feared escalators were made to kill us.
It is not just that we judge the new wrong – it is that we judge the new so wrong that only Christopher Wren’s cleverness kept us from cancelling St Paul’s Cathedral half way up.
And so it is that the new Olympic symbol deserves great praise.
It reflects dynamism, youth, togetherness, inclusion, sport, integrity, honesty, fluffy bunnies, and double chocolate ice cream. It is a vibrant brand that will bring the world together and will reflect the glory of the greatest sporting spectacle on Earth.
It is not an expensive unfinished jigsaw, nor bland corporate dross. It is not the lazy creation of ad men with no hint at our sporting or cultural heritage. And it is not pretentious tripe shot from a committee’s collective arse.
So in this Londoner’s opinion the new Olympic logo is fantastic – and it is certainly better than the ugly Houses of Parliament and the awful Big Ben that we used as our symbol in 1948.
New logo and launch video here: http://www.london2012.com/about-newlook-video.html
Salon des Pseuds’ goes back to the source as the Pakalolo Tavern gets steam cleaned: - Leif
On the rocky shores of the Aegean the white stone steps cascade, down into the salt water and up to a cool grassy glade punctuated by silver birch, soft pine and ionic columns shouldering the night sky.
A cracked stone tablet reads ‘Welcome Traveler’ in Greek.
Alabaster statuettes on pedestals of Khan, King, Gascoigne, Hemingway and Freeman; busts of Budd, Best, Bradman, and Baggio and Fangio all flicker in the waving lights from the hanging golden lanterns.
Ancient Persian rugs flatten pools in the whispering grass, silver chalices brim with the wondering, wandering grass.
There’s a bleached driftwood bar with silver nails and verdigris copper carte de jour and a cave that reaches through the ages to bring us every wonderful shade of elixir ambrosia straight from the poisoned tree of life; scrumpy anyone, calvados?
Sprigs of lavender adorn the birches and twigs of thyme burn slowly in the grate.
Timeless veils of immortal ephemera parade, serenade; our ghosts of Marley, Morrisey, Clarke and Morrison, Cave, Buckley and Bob; a gift from Yortubus, god of context.
Pseuds’ gather like shadows in the breeze, banter, bark and bray, inspiring, exhaling.
Haggling for hearsay with the echoes of Camus, Ezekiel, Thomas and Chief Dan George…
A cracked stone tablet reads ‘Welcome Traveler’ in Greek.
Alabaster statuettes on pedestals of Khan, King, Gascoigne, Hemingway and Freeman; busts of Budd, Best, Bradman, and Baggio and Fangio all flicker in the waving lights from the hanging golden lanterns.
Ancient Persian rugs flatten pools in the whispering grass, silver chalices brim with the wondering, wandering grass.
There’s a bleached driftwood bar with silver nails and verdigris copper carte de jour and a cave that reaches through the ages to bring us every wonderful shade of elixir ambrosia straight from the poisoned tree of life; scrumpy anyone, calvados?
Sprigs of lavender adorn the birches and twigs of thyme burn slowly in the grate.
Timeless veils of immortal ephemera parade, serenade; our ghosts of Marley, Morrisey, Clarke and Morrison, Cave, Buckley and Bob; a gift from Yortubus, god of context.
Pseuds’ gather like shadows in the breeze, banter, bark and bray, inspiring, exhaling.
Haggling for hearsay with the echoes of Camus, Ezekiel, Thomas and Chief Dan George…
Liverpool - worst fans in the world: Official - Ebren & Margin
Uefa has ruled that Liverpool officially have the worst fans in Europe.
Over the last four years the European football authority explained that fans of the five-time European Cup winners have been involved in more incidents than the fans of any other club.
And that was not the only problem.
A Uefa spokesman said: "Zey are 'orrible, every time zey show up to support their club.
"Other clubs, zey return tickets - this is nice, we invite our friends, they 'ave nice lunches, everyone is 'appy. But zees Scousers, zey insist on turning up.
"And zey are even 'orrible for us 'oo 'ave kept ticketz away from ze fanz in advance. Zey make so much noize, zat we can hardly 'ear ourzelves eat."
A supporter from the LFC fan club responded: "Alright! Alright! Calm down.
"Dey do dough, don't dey, la."
Over the last four years the European football authority explained that fans of the five-time European Cup winners have been involved in more incidents than the fans of any other club.
And that was not the only problem.
A Uefa spokesman said: "Zey are 'orrible, every time zey show up to support their club.
"Other clubs, zey return tickets - this is nice, we invite our friends, they 'ave nice lunches, everyone is 'appy. But zees Scousers, zey insist on turning up.
"And zey are even 'orrible for us 'oo 'ave kept ticketz away from ze fanz in advance. Zey make so much noize, zat we can hardly 'ear ourzelves eat."
A supporter from the LFC fan club responded: "Alright! Alright! Calm down.
"Dey do dough, don't dey, la."
MotoGP comes alive - mimitig
A Glass of water for Mr Parrish, and a handful of Vale (ium) for the Mimi, please.
What a stonking race! The best of the season so far, and now MotoGP really comes alive this year.
I thought I'd be writing a piece tonight on how the Aussies rule the roost (and more later) but what I forgot was that Mugello is Valentino's home turf and he would just never let it go.
As I followed the build-up to today's race, I was in full agreement with the pundits that this is the year when the Aussies are coming. The young guns Stoner and Vermuelen have won most of the races this year. Casey, riding for Ducati, has disproved his crash and burn reputation, and shown great maturity with the Italian team this season. Chris, riding for Suzuki, has taken advantages when he can, and a wet weather win in Le Mans was typical of his opportunistic skill.
Casey and Chris took pole and No 2 on the grid for today's race, and it seemed as though this would be a stroll in the park for a bit of Aussie rules. A great pre-race interview with Mick Doohan explained why they come over here with such a burning desire to win. The Brisbane man said: "It's a long way to go home with your tail between your legs, y'know? Australians always want to have it their way - winning."
Well fine, Mick. We know how the Aussies approach their sport and yes, they do like to leave large footprints in the sand, but up against the master, the Doctor, at home in Mugello and there'll be a fight on your hands!
And what a fight they got! Rossi didn't get the best of starts and in the early laps was down in 8th - not a winning position you would have thought but the Doctor was at home in his surgery and about to deliver a few lessons to his patients, or as commentator Charlie Cox would say - Nightmare in a bubble car for his opponents. Rossi just showed them all why he is Number One in the world of motor-cycle racing. He may not be the reigning world champion or even leading the current table, but he is the best in the world. My heart is in my mouth too often these days when he races, but I keep my faith with him - even at a 60 degree lean, and I trust that he will do the business, and deliver another World Championship for me and all his other fans. Just remember that although he may have been around for ever, he is still only 28 years old.
A postscript for today's race was that the privateer D'Antin Ducati team led the Italian bikes home. Nice one Alex!
What a stonking race! The best of the season so far, and now MotoGP really comes alive this year.
I thought I'd be writing a piece tonight on how the Aussies rule the roost (and more later) but what I forgot was that Mugello is Valentino's home turf and he would just never let it go.
As I followed the build-up to today's race, I was in full agreement with the pundits that this is the year when the Aussies are coming. The young guns Stoner and Vermuelen have won most of the races this year. Casey, riding for Ducati, has disproved his crash and burn reputation, and shown great maturity with the Italian team this season. Chris, riding for Suzuki, has taken advantages when he can, and a wet weather win in Le Mans was typical of his opportunistic skill.
Casey and Chris took pole and No 2 on the grid for today's race, and it seemed as though this would be a stroll in the park for a bit of Aussie rules. A great pre-race interview with Mick Doohan explained why they come over here with such a burning desire to win. The Brisbane man said: "It's a long way to go home with your tail between your legs, y'know? Australians always want to have it their way - winning."
Well fine, Mick. We know how the Aussies approach their sport and yes, they do like to leave large footprints in the sand, but up against the master, the Doctor, at home in Mugello and there'll be a fight on your hands!
And what a fight they got! Rossi didn't get the best of starts and in the early laps was down in 8th - not a winning position you would have thought but the Doctor was at home in his surgery and about to deliver a few lessons to his patients, or as commentator Charlie Cox would say - Nightmare in a bubble car for his opponents. Rossi just showed them all why he is Number One in the world of motor-cycle racing. He may not be the reigning world champion or even leading the current table, but he is the best in the world. My heart is in my mouth too often these days when he races, but I keep my faith with him - even at a 60 degree lean, and I trust that he will do the business, and deliver another World Championship for me and all his other fans. Just remember that although he may have been around for ever, he is still only 28 years old.
A postscript for today's race was that the privateer D'Antin Ducati team led the Italian bikes home. Nice one Alex!
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