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!