Overwhelming

'I turned my face away, and dreamed about you.'

It must be approaching the festive season again, as Shane and Kirsty have started to seep into the consciousness. Overwhelmed as I am with the sheer weight of news at the moment, I feel the need to stick my head in the sand and hope it all just goes away. I was not a big fan of Jimmy Savile, but I did like Jim'll Fix It when I was about 10 years old (though probably not as much as he would have liked me, by all accounts) and besides that could not - even in the context of the wild and woolly 70s - really understand why he was such a prominent figure on the BBC. Still, even though I had heard nodding, winking, paedo gags about him for many years, which I assumed were just of the vindictive/silly type, it has been increasingly shocking to watch the truth slowly come out; astounding to see his ostentatious gravestone torn up and smashed to pieces, so that even death is no refuge for him. Hearing some of the horrific, almost unbelievable stories, neither should it be, I suppose.

Then there's Hillsborough, still (rightly of course) rumbling on, the forthcoming US presidential election, the Syrian war and Turkey's involvement, the never-ending Eurozone crisis, Lance Armstrong's reign of terror, Conservative and coalition cuts, John Terry, Ashley Cole, Juilan Assange, Andrew Mitchell, Gary McKinnon, Abu Hamza...

It's all too much for me, and in those circumstances, a bit of footy usually does the trick. So, a review of City past and City yet to come, with some words on England sandwiched in between.

My trip to Craven Cottage was a delight, in a very Fulham sort of way. Not for them the standard pie or burger on the way to the ground, oh no. Instead, a slice of artisan goat's cheese and spinach pizza (at a very reasonable £4 for a large slice. Recommended) was the pre-match choice. Seats were excellent, just on the edge of the City support, who were in fine voice and happy to see a good win over a poor side. Then it was off to South Wales for a few days' break, where the Dortmund match was played out in a pub called The Corvus in St Clears. Nice little place, tiny snug bar with a Calor gas heater and a few sardonic Taffs at the bar. How we survived that torrid but entertaining night is purely down to Joe Hart, and they looked a frighteningly good side, full of vim and vigour, passing the ball well and closing us down at every turn. Some slight encouragement in the chances we made, but I don't hold out much hope for the return leg. What with that and a visit from Jose's men to come, the result against Ajax might make all the difference in the world, though if I'm honest, I think we'll be looking at Thursday night football again at the end of the group stages.

By contrast, Sunderland was all too easy, despite (if you listen to Bobby) being played at the crack of dawn after 2 hours' kip. A strolling romp at home (yet again) and a bit of a disappointment from O'Neill's boys, who I thought might have tried a bit harder. Having Richards back is a good thing, though it does raise more questions about the recent acquisitions. Ironic perhaps that these players were brought in in preparation for the Champions League campaign...

As far as England go, I'm in agreement with most sane people, who question the logic of having San Marino in competition at this level. What is the sense in it? Five nil was just about a satisfactory result for England, and that surely makes a mockery of them playing each other at all. Now we eagerly await the re-scheduled kick-off in Poland and... Oh, fuck it, I can't be bothered to write any more about the England football team. I just hope that something is done about the racism levelled at the Under 21 side in Serbia, but I'm not holding my breath.

Something should also be done about the bloody French, causing damage to Silva before our crucial matches at West Brom and against the Dam united. I'm hopeful of a 2-1 win at the Hawthorns and perhaps a draw with Ajax. Let's see.

England Man City

I watched the friendly match between England and Ghana. I may not have been observing the same match as the one evidently laid before Clive and Andy on ITV1, mind (though I confess I only saw the Carroll goal on replay). They were both continually repeating that it was a great game, and an excellent advert for friendly matches, yet I really couldn't see it. Downing was made man of the match, but he looked shit to me, and almost every touch by one of the many City players on the field was either a cynical foul or a misplaced pass. Utter dross if you ask me, and not particularly heartening for the tense end of the season which is fast approaching. With the exception of Milner (who put his all into it at least) and Hart (who had very little to occupy him) I was kind of embarrassed by the performances of our players.

The fact of Gyan playing so well and getting that late equaliser does not bode well either.

Here are my player ratings:

Hart        6 (not too much to do)

Johnson  6 (seemed OK)

Lescott   4 (too many late and desperate challenges as always)

Cahill      6 (who?)

Jagielka   6 (not bad)
Baines     6 (should be Welsh with a name like that)

Milner     7 (good heart and energy compensating for his talent shortfall)

Barry      5 (not captain material - exposed a few times and quite niggly in the tackle)

Wilshere 5 (fell below the fairly high standard he has been setting of late)
Jarvis      5 (I prefer Martin Jarvis)

Downing 5 (I'm prejudiced)

Carroll    4 (see above - he's just a big donkey. Get him out!)

Defoe     4 (didn't see much of him)

Young     6 (good, but faded)

Welbeck 4 (Rag wanker)

So there you have it. My considered opinion of the cream of Capello's crop. Even he thought it was a good game, so I must be going mad.

Not much to shout about

Blah blah. Andy Carroll. Blah blah. Kieran Gibbs. Yet again, an England performance to be ashamed of. That Steven Gerrard should once more be the only man we can rely on is little short of scandalous. That the French, in such hilarious disarray during that awful summer in SA, should play us off the park is dire indeed, but not surprising.

I was a little mean about Carroll on Twitter during the match, but that was only because a certain Geordie I know from the intarwebs wound me up with a taunt about the astounding waste of money evident in the presence of those from the Man City squad. He had a point, which is why it stung a little, but having said that, Richards had a decent-ish game. I hope this is a continuation of a welcome return to form for him, but we will have to wait and see as we approach the hard slog to the festive season. There isn't much more to say about England (Crouch had a nice touch to score - let's hope he continues to not replicate his good national form in a Spurs shirt) so I'll continue and finish this brief missive on the City theme.

I bumped into a local (to North London) City-supporting mate on the bus yesterday.

"What's going on up there?" I asked, nodding my head in the notional direction of Eastlands, whilst somehow shaking it in disgust at the same time.
"There's only one thing to do," he replied
"What's that?"
"Buy more players! And why? Because we can!"

He threw back his head and laughed, exposing his filled teeth, and I could only join in.

JT

Why is John Terry speaking ‘on behalf of the players’? If I remember correctly, he was stripped of the captaincy some time ago, and so surely does not have a mandate of any kind to speak for the team. Who therefore allowed him the platform to speak to the press? It seems to me that the basics of media management are sorely lacking here.

Update from an article in today’s Guardian: it appears that the opportunity (if you care to call it that) to face the media was arranged by lot – much as the final positions in England’s group could well be decided tomorrow afternoon. That in itself seems odd to me, but I suppose we have to take it as fact. However, it doesn’t change the situation (I would say that it makes it all the more egregious) in that the media management from the FA camp was very poor. Surely the words of the sweating rapist (though I don't mean that literally - heavens no!) would have been sanity checked before he was allowed to read them out? Or am I the one being naive here? Was it all planned as some kind of bizarre smokescreen to confuse our opponents? Time (which is approximately 24 hours at the time of writing) will tell.

2. Why, when he spoke of the need for a tactical change did he single out only Joe Cole and Wayne Rooney as players who are capable of changing a game? What effect does this (by ‘this’ I of course mean a player who has been removed from the job of captain speaking ‘on behalf of the players’) have on the other members of the squad who didn’t make it into JT’s fantasy 2? How will the putative skipper Stephen Gerrard feel about it? Did he know about, and give his blessing to it, in advance, and if so – why? How do Aaron Lennon and SWP feel? Most importantly, what will be the effect of all this shit on England’s performance against Slovenia? Unless the theory at 1) above is correct, then the answer has to be most definitely not a positive one.

All that aside, and ignoring the way in which the message was put out (as well as the subsequent ‘squashing’ of the mini mutiny be Capello [and you may draw your own conclusions as to my feelings towards JT from what you read]) is there any validity in what the oleaginous one said as he bathed in his own sweat in the harsh glare of the TV lights? Would Joe Cole really make enough of a difference (would have is by now an entirely academic discussion, sorry to say) to a side which appears yet again unable to perform the most basic of necessary skills on a football pitch?

My own assessment is: no. Cole, despite a recent run of better form, has for me never really cracked it, and the show pony allegations are all too often found to be proven. In defence of including him, he is at least a left footed player who should fit into the left sided attacking midfield position. Which is territory not best occupied by either Stephen Gerrard or SWP. So, there are problems with the formation, but these are largely as a result of the limited options available to Capello coming into the tournament. See my earlier - pre World Cup - post for more.

But still the main issue, as above, is the seeming inability of these professional players to perform the basics of the game. Notwithstanding the difficulties all the teams are experiencing with control of the Jabulani ball, England cannot pass to save their lives. If they aren’t rushing into the penalty box on the break, they are completely lost. Surely a £6 million salary ought to deliver that elementary, er, element, if nothing else?

Nights I should have sat in

Tenuous title. I apologise, but - as with the content of this post - I have struggled to hit the right tone.



I thought it was a good idea to go and watch last night's game in the pub. I think we are all aware that the football part of this particular brainwave was seriously lacking, but the social element wasn't exactly a roaring success either.

Having previous experience (though admittedly it wasn't all that recently that England were represented at an international tournament and, let's face it, it looks likely to be a while before it happens again) I was aware of the pitfalls and was prepared to take the risk, so that I could trade off the hassles against the exuberance of the crowd and what I felt (almost) sure would be a comfortable victory for the Three Lions. In any case, watching 'important' matches at home is always a profoundly irritating experience for me, surrounded as I am by unsympathetic females, and I felt this to be an important game.

On arrival though, I was mildly surprised to see just how many people had made the pilgrimage to this particular corner of Albion in order to pay their respects (as well as £3.25 a pint) to the boys in white, but was still holding a 'fair enough' attitude as 7.30 approached. By the time Adrian Chiles had finished his inane burbling and the whistle's screech sped closer, every inch of floor space was taken up by bodies sipping on their plastic Foster bags and I edged my way to a vantage point while I waited for the short-straw man to bring the beers.

At first it was just a ripple. An Amazonian butterfly contemplated taking wing and the synaptic activity began to give momentum to the wave as a pissed-up Aussie stood before me and said:

"Mate. Don't think you're gonna stand there when the game starts."

As an Englishman, I could only ignore him, gazing across the room to see if the beers had yet been secured, and he edged past me, tripping over my heels as he did so. Then, a moment later, another Aussie tapped me on the shoulder.

"Mate," he said "You're blocking the view."

I gestured around me with an affected wtf? shrug, and said:

"Sorry, you'll have to stand up like everyone else." My voice was barely audible above the vuvuzela din from the telly and the almost drunken chanting of the fans in the pub, and I turned back towards the screen, seeking on the way a modicum of approval from the blokes who were standing near me. Not one met my eye.

After that, I wasn't sure if remarks were being directed at me, or just about me, but there was a very obvious dark current emerging. My mate at the bar was still battling to get the beers so I was unable to seek solace in my lager, but I kept hearing various comments, all in outback tones.

"It's a joke, mate!"

"We've been in here since 4.30..."

I glanced around, only to see hordes of extremely tall men (and I stand 6' 3" in my socks) cradling pints of lager in their crossed arms as they gazed at the screen.

I wasn't to know that everyone within a 6 feet radius of me was Antipodean when, on the final arrival of my own beer, I began to slag off Godzone loudly and vociferously to the bearer. Their provenance soon became obvious to me when I overheard some of their conversation (FYI: banal. In the extreme. Here's an example: "Oh yeah. I got Algeria in the sweepstakes, mate. Thought: fuck that! But I reckon they're in with a fucking shout.") and this began to prey on my mind as the first apprehensive touches of the ball were essayed by Fabio's boys. Then I saw the manager of the establishment approaching...

Hummmmmm

World Cup observations so far...

The bloody vuvuzelas are awful. My old mate Lutch nailed it when he mentioned It's A Knockout (internationals - correctly titled Jeux Sans Frontieres of course) and I certainly feel that the constant enervating drone does nothing to enhance the match atmosphere - quite the opposite in fact.

Timing is going to be a bit of a pain in the arse over the next couple of weeks, with no telly and severe internet restrictions at work, so I will be taking lunch at just before 12.30 and finding a TV somewhere, and then using the BBC text updates for the 3 o'clock games. Not ideal, but what can one do?

The games themselves haven't done much to stir the soul, although the Argies were value for money and were unlucky not to repeat previous escapades with a hammering of the Super Eagles, who (with the exception of their keeper) were not really all that super, one has to say. Brazil, Holland and Spain are all yet to come, so I do expect to see things picking up on that front. Which brings me on to the sorry state of affairs that is the England squad.

I think I may have already blogged about the paucity of options available to my uncle Clive - sorry, I mean Fabio Capello - when choosing his squad, and that particular issue was most clearly illustrated during last night's exertions. Skating over Green's excruciating error (what else can one do?) Heskey did - as the media are saying - have a good game, but demonstrated clearly why he is not a striker when handed a golden opportunity to score in the second half. Straight down the Tourette throat of Tim Howard. Both Lennon and SWP (though being deployed on the left is hardly the most effective use of little Shaun, is it?) failed to really make an impact, with the final ball almost always a disappointment.

Lampard was largely anonymous; King's injury-enforced withdrawal was entirely to be expected, but leaves us dangerously exposed - Carragher's lion heart in no way compensating for his lack of pace; and, worst of all, England persist in playing a one dimensional game. I mentioned the Argies earlier, and against Nigeria they displayed the kind of patience and skill needed if a team is to make any progress in the competition by holding on to the ball for extended periods. Something which England patently cannot do. Is it really that hard to string a few passes together against a side who could really be described as efficient at best? If it is, then England have no hope of progressing any distance. They cannot pass the ball unless they are marauding forward on the break, Rooney stretching every sinew to score, and as such always appear fragile and exposed.

To be fair, I had little or no expectation of England making any impact on these finals, so really have no right to be too disappointed, but it is still galling.

Whither?

World Cup approaching. The first one about which I will have blogged, as if anyone gave a toss.

Thus far, the world and all its cynicism being what it is, fairly boring. From a football (and humanity) point of view, the injury to Rio is a good thing. Regardless of the persistent injuries and poor form, the man is an out and out cunt. This opinion is in no way partisan either, because his twattishness is entirely independent of his Ragness. Although that obviously doesn't help.

I was disappointed, and a little surprised, about Adam Johnson's exclusion from the squad, and mystified (as ever) by the inclusion of Heskey. There are of course the usual worries about under-performing (or over-emoting) 'superstars' and a premature ejaculation from the tournament.

As far as the tournament goes, well it's not easy to say yet. One could leap on a high horse and lament the drought and starvation on the African Continent amidst the multi million dollar Coke advertising deals, but what would be the point of that? Conversely, one could launch into some maudlin testimony to the basic joy of a few kids kicking a bundle of rags around, as a focal point for the greater benefits the game delivers. But, blah blah blah.

James Corden can fuck off and die. Adebayor on the BBC (wtf???) and Adrian Chiles on ITV. Let's go!

Hurly-Burly

I look around.

"It's only March and we're already sick of Twitter..." Jenson Button getting amorous with his model girlfriend on the massage table in Melbourne. Robinho on the beach banging his bongos. Mum's got trouble with her computer, but she doesn't want the neighbours to find out.

Jacqui Smith and her husband. A dreadfully tenuous London Paper connection to 'have you ever caught your other half watching porn?' and Tony McNulty persistently pictured leaving his house in Hammersmith (or wherever) while GB touts his ludicrous political fantasies around South America.

Pete Doherty's good again and The Fall are playing Koko. Jade's dead, but we're not allowed to be beastly about that, and James Corden is a really nice guy. Adam Woodyat is posting pictures of his non-Twittering Eastenders cast member friends to TwitPic.

Someone at work had a stroke, but it wasn't a stroke after all. Or was it?



Did you promise something by 5 o'clock today? Holdall thrown to the platform with force and a 'STAY OUT OF MY FUCKING FACE!' Wayne Rooney should be the next United captain. Strauss is making a good fist of England captain.

One daughter committed suicide, the other is autistic. That's why she ran away from Adelaide. Now, aloof and alone, she gnaws away at her soul, ignored by those whose approval she seeks most. Everyone is wearing blinkers and WILL NOT look beyond their narrow horizons.

Should I stay or should I go? Alan McGhee goes swimming and Helen goes to Waterloo. The kids dance, Sunny can't work out her new camera and my dad's B&B in Tunbridge Wells (not Tonbridge) stinks. Bloody 3G card doesn't work. They keep missing Lakis off the lists and he keeps smiling, though really he's scared. "I just want you to know that, though the formal relationship is changing, you can still talk to me..." Dunfermline is next to Gordon Brown and will be allowed to go down. All is quiet at the Large Hadron Collider.

I look around.

Dire here

Three days of mourning colours on the blog again.

As poor as to be expected, and as crushing. Just another England night to remember, no matter how hard we try to forget. I saw Steven Norris this morning standing outside the tube station, and even he was talking about it. Although I suspect he probably cares about football as much as that horse-faced inbreed who was sitting next to Barwick last night, no doubt wondering why on earth the chaps didn't start scrummaging. I'd be keen to know why the fans insist on singing the goddamn national anthem at games, as if the royal family have any real connection with the game.

That aside, how is it possible that players like Gerrard and Lampard can perform so badly? How, when they are earning obscene amounts of money, can they be excused the inability to even pass the ball?

Despite the fact that I have never rated McClaren, and thought that he was effectively running the team even during Sven's reign, I am still disappointed that England won't have a presence in the finals this year. All that remains now is for the FA to make another monumental cock-up of appointing the next mug.

Still, Vedrun played well - better than Micah, I'm afraid.

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A load of Bilics

Sad to read about the demise of the headline writer in these times of SEO, I am looking forward to tonight's match, after a fashion. Not wishing to queer the pitch, I have a feeling that it's going to be another nailbiter.

At least, and I'm sure the blogosphere (yawn) is already filling up with opinion on this, I think SMC has done the right thing in dropping Goldenbollocks. I was fortunate enough to be at the inaugural England game (against Brazil) at the *new* Wembley (TM), and couldn't quite credit the hero's welcome he received. All this talk of him being able to drop a ball on Crouch's eyebrows doesn't wash with me, I'm afraid. He's too old and is playing in a vastly inferior league so that he can increase his already enormous personal fortune. No thanks.

And as for Tony Robinson. He was excellent in Blackadder of course. Many people forget that he was originally the intelligent one to David James' imbecilic aristocrat. Just lately though, he's been dropping the ball on Time Team Tottenham. SMC (as well as 'Big' Neville Southall, as it goes, in what sniffs of Welsh schadenfreude) has sent him the right message IMO, which is:

"Piss off! You're a fucking liability."
This means that SGE will sign him for some inflated fee in January, and everyone will be sniggering at City again. Carson seems all right.

Anyway, the other signal SMC is sending, with the inclusion of SWP, is apparently one of attacking intent. England don't want to sit back and go for the draw, I'm told, because that's not the way we play. Arf!

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