Friday 30 April 2010

Slovenia!

I write this from the main square of Maribor, the beautiful second city of Slovenia. I have some shows here and it seemed like an excellent time to test the water ahead of the crucial world cup clash against England on 23rd June. What does the man on the street think of Slovenia’s chances against us? (He thinks they’ll win 2-1, but he’d be happy with a draw). For those of you who don’t know it, Slovenia is a small country in Central Europe. I’m told that over fifty percent of the land is covered in forest although I have no way of verifying this fact. Large swathes of the country might be paved for all I know. I just haven’t got the time to check these things.

The population is just over two million but that doesn’t mean they’re as bad at football as Scotland or Wales. On the contrary, they beat Russia in the qualifying tournament. It’s unlikely that you would have heard of any of their players but they’re compact and skilful and they work hard. Like a very tidy version of Stoke City except none of the opponents in their qualifying group ended up in hospital as a result of a late tackle.

As a country, they’re no pushovers. According to Wikipedia, when Slovenia declared independence in 1991, a ten-day war followed during which “the country rejected Yugoslav interference”. Which sounds like a woman turning down the chance of a date with a prospective suitor but actually involved heavy fighting. (Having said that, I’ve had dates that ended quite badly as well). And again a few years later when most of the other countries in the region were heavily involved in the Balkan wars, Slovenia very firmly told Slobodan Milosevic that his sort of xenophobic nationalism had no place in their progressive country and he invaded Bosnia and Kosovo instead. And neither of these countries qualified for this world cup so make of that what you will.

Slovenia is a country I’ve been to on a couple of occasions and the feeling right now as always is one of quiet optimism. The last time I came here, The Queen had paid a visit a few weeks beforehand and she’d been given a horse as a gift. On behalf of The Queen, I thanked the Slovenian people for the present and mentioned that she’d said that the horse had tasted lovely. Which I think shows that Slovenians have a sense of humour but more importantly that they’re no respecter of big reputations.

Do I think we’ll beat them? Of course. But as much as I’m confident that a country with fifty million people should beat a country of two million people at anything except hide and seek, it doesn’t pay to be too triumphalist. It’s entirely possible that one of the players will be in the audience and that my deriding of his nations soccer skills is the thing that drives him on to score the winning goal against us. Football is a funny game. Who can forget the Norwegian commentator shouting “Maggie Thatcher. Can you hear me?” after Norway beat us in a world cup qualifier. Come June, there is the tiniest possibility that the Slovenian equivalent of John Motson will be screaming “David Cameron/Gordon Brown/ Nick Clegg (cross out as applicable). Your boys took a hell of a beating!”

Monday 26 April 2010

Roo-Mania

I have a confession to make. I love Wayne Rooney. Not when he’s playing for Manchester United obviously. Then, I reserve the right to abuse him for the full ninety-seven minutes (on average) per game for the entire season. Including European matches where I know I’m meant to cheer on the plucky English team against the wily continental teams with their evil cheating diving foreigners but let’s face it our teams have as many of them as theirs. But when he’s playing for England I love him. (I should explain to any non-football fans that in the context of the beautiful game, it’s perfectly acceptable for a man in his forties to declare their love for a fit twenty-four year old and for that statement not to contain even a whiff of homosexuality. Just thought I should clear that up).

Yes he’s a Scouser and if like me you’re not from Liverpool, they’re never easy to love. (Stan Boardman anyone? Emlyn Hughes?) Yes in the past, he’s blown it in massive games but he’s not the only one and in the last year or two he seems to have matured to the point where I wouldn’t even nominate him as the prime candidate to do something stupid in an England shirt. (JT, Stevie G, Rio?) Personally, I’d have made him captain but Fabio knows best.

We all know we can’t win the World Cup without Wayne Rooney. (We probably can’t with him but that’s another blog). Other teams could maybe make do with losing star players. If Argentina lost Messi, it would hurt them but he never plays for them the way he does for Barcelona and Lord help everybody if he does. Cesc Fabregas looks doubtful but with Xavi and Iniesta in the team and Javi Alonso in reserve they’ll cope. Brazil have seven blokes who are currently playing beach football who could be called up tomorrow with no discernible difference in quality. As for England, sure Steven Gerrard can change games, Frank Lampard can chip in with the odd goal or two and even Theo Walcott might do something spectacular. But Rooney is the one they all fear and if he’s fit and raring to go against USA, we’re in with a shout.

Part of Wayne’s appeal (aside from being called Wayne which along with Kevin is the footballers name par excellence) is that he seems to embody a sort of Englishness that we thought had disappeared. I know his name’s Rooney and his roots are Irish and his looks are Irish and he’s married to someone called Colleen but his family sailed over at some point in the last two hundred years and stayed here so now he’s ours. He seems like someone from another era. I can picture him now loading a cannon on an eighteenth century man ‘o’ war or bravely defending a besieged garrison in Africa. As a footballer, it’s easy to imagine him in the nineteen thirties enjoying a kick about in the street with the local kids and then wolfing down a pre-match meal of steak and chips. And at around two in the afternoon lashing a great dollop of Brylcreem onto his hair (what’s left of it), waving goodbye to his landlady, sharing the bus to the ground with the supporters and then gliding effortlessly over a pitch that looks less like a football field and more like The Somme. And after a glorious fifteen year career scoring fifty goals a season and having earned a total of seventeen pounds, eight shillings and sixpence quietly retiring to run a newsagents back in Liverpool.

But this is 2010. And a Premiership footballer will not play on a terrible pitch unless his team reaches a cup final. And he most certainly will never have to run a newsagents again. Unless it’s the largest chain of newsagents in the world and he owns a controlling interest and even then, you can’t see him counting the number of Daily Mail’s he’s sold that day and tying up the rest for collection.

Football’s changed. But Wayne Rooney remains the same. Solid. Sturdy. Unyielding. Like a good dining room table. But with two feet. And better heading ability. God protect him and keep him injury free. Until July 12th when I’d be happy for him to pick up a knock that keeps him out till January.

Friday 23 April 2010

Hard But Fair

Fabio Capello is the best manager that England have had since Sir Alf Ramsey. I’ve said in the past that I’m not particularly optimistic about the world cup. But any optimism I may be feeling has absolutely nothing to do with any of the players bar Wayne Rooney and everything to do with the manager. Fabio Capello is on a ridiculous wage and no doubt there are bonus payments that will be triggered the further he takes us in the tournament but he seems to be worth every penny. As much as someone on one hundred thousand pounds a week can be said to be worth every penny unless he’s single handedly saving the planet from alien invaders. In which case I’d be happy to discuss a bonus.

The thing about Capello is he seems to be the real thing. Not a hard man exactly but you wouldn’t want to cross him. A stern disciplinarian who may well shout at the players but only when they absolutely deserve it. Not one of the lads and yet comfortable with the banter of a dressing room. Plus he wears glasses. And not ridiculous ‘I’m wearing glasses but I don’t really want you to notice them’ Sven Goran Eriksson type glasses. Proper glasses with proper frames, glasses that speak of a man who’s been so focused on the job at hand that his eyes have suffered and even though he could easily afford laser eye surgery has opted to not have the operation for fear of losing valuable time watching football.

It’s so refreshing. Our last few managers have been a sorry collection of misfits and miscreants. Kevin Keegan was liked but not loved (except on Tyneside where grown men go weak at the knees at the mere mention of his name) and in hindsight too emotionally unstable to have ever coped with such a high profile job. Sven was the polar (almost literally) opposite, too cool and Swedish for our taste plus there were the unseemly affairs with Ulrika (sort of understandable) and the secretary at the FA (Completely undignified. I mean, can anyone imagine Sir Alf or Ron Greenwood having sex with a secretary?). And then there was Steve McClaren, a man who was quite plainly so out of his depth that one had to avert one’s eyes at press conferences. His habit of always looking for the positives in even the worst defeat started to make me feel like I wanted to pin him up against a wall and say ‘what positives you ignoramus? I’ve seen better performances in our fat, Jewish, over-forties league on a Monday night’. I always felt that if Steve’s family were wiped out in a terrible conflagration, he’d have been stood at the door of his wrecked house saying ‘well, obviously it wasn’t the result I was looking for but one has to look for the positives. I managed to save the dog so that gives me something to build on for the next family’.

But now, finally we have a man we can have faith in. My feeling is that Fabio will take us as far as it’s possible for this team to go. It may be that being Italian, he has the emotional detachment necessary to distance himself from any abuse he may get at the first sign of a downturn in the teams fortunes. (It’s possible there’ll be a certain restraint in that department for fear of being labeled as racist although that won’t stop The Sun).

The players seem happier as well. Lest we forget, footballers although they’re on wages that would make an African dictator blush with embarrassment, are essentially overgrown teenagers who need strict instruction and guidance. They’re only really happy when they’re given a simple but definable task and told to get on with it. Kevin Keegan didn’t give them any guidance at all, Sven indulged them far too much and one could only imagine the stick Steve McClaren got after he left the room. Or even while he was still in the room.

But in Fabio we trust.

Tuesday 20 April 2010

The Agony and the Ecstasy (but mostly the agony)

I need to talk about penalties. We’re going to have to face them at some point and we might as well think about them now and then it’s done. I think we, the supporters need to mentally prepare ourselves for the possibility. The chances of us winning four knock-out games and lifting the trophy are miniscule as it is but to do it without having to win at least one penalty shoot-out, well, to all intents and purposes they’re completely non-existent so we have to be ready.

For the players, things are simple. Walk up to the penalty area while ignoring the fifty thousand screaming fans and the suddenly gigantic opposing goalkeeper and try not to think about the fact that your entire country is pinning all their hopes and dreams on you and you alone. Place the ball on the spot, take a few steps back, inhale deeply and plant the ball firmly into the net. Simple.

They just need to practice. And practice. And then when they’ve finished practicing, they need to practice some more. They should be able to do it with their eyes shut. It might help if they did. If I was coach, I wouldn’t let them go home of an evening until they’d scored ten in a row. I’d keep them there from now till June 10th. Now obviously this is not practical and possibly verging on a hostage situation. Although if that’s what it takes to win the World Cup, I’m prepared to go that extra mile.

Other countries manage it. The Germans rarely lose penalty shoot-outs. I don’t know whether it’s actually down to steely Teutonic efficiency or whether there’s a special file called Zen and the Art of Penalty Shoot-Outs that’s only available to Germans who get picked for their world cup squad. But when they need to be strong, German footballers stand up to be counted. And their goalkeepers seem to grow.

Whatever, the players are not my concern. I just hope they don’t balls it up again. I’m talking about the fans. How can we cope with mental stress? Well alcohol helps and everyone who’s hosting a party for an England match needs to ensure a well stocked fridge for at least two and a half hours of medium to heavy drinking.

I think positive thinking may also help. The last time we lost to Portugal on penalties, I honestly thought we were going to win. Unfortunately, I was the only person out of ten in the room that did and I feel that the negativity from the other nine contributed heavily to our defeat. I’d actually like to take this opportunity to apologise on their behalf and I’ll do my best to make sure it doesn’t happen again.

Then there’s the whole thing about not watching the penalties. I can’t abide people who can’t watch. More than that, I’d go further and say that if they don’t watch and we lose, it’s their fault that we lost. What do you mean you can’t watch? This is the final act. No-one goes to the cinema and leaves ten minutes before the end while asking their mate to let them know if it turns out OK. Not only should they be forced to watch, they should be made to sit really close to the TV and have their eyes pinned open like Malcolm McDowell in A Clockwork Orange. And if we still lose, at least we can rule them out of any blame.

Finally, we need to desensitize the nation to the traumatic effects of penalties. The government needs to act. Penalty shoot-outs should be made compulsory for every dispute. Whose turn is it to do the washing up? Penalties. Or what if it’s three in the morning and someone needs to feed the baby? Penalties (perhaps only three kicks each parent if the crying is really loud). And what if the general election is a tight affair? I think a shoot out would be the most democratic way to get a result. Before long, penalties will be as natural as breathing and we’ll breeze through the later rounds. Assuming we don’t get beaten in ninety minutes.

Saturday 17 April 2010

The Unbearable Lightness of Being an England Fan

Fifty-four days to go and I’m a maelstrom of emotions. I’m scared, excited, hopeful, light-headed, giddy with anticipation. The world cup is almost upon us and the possibilities are infinite. Of course we all know what will happen. England will get through the group stage and at some point in the knockout stages will come up against another giant of the football world and the entire country will be put through the emotional wringer. Now this time, things are slightly different because Fabio Capello is in charge and we’ve actually got a chance of winning the game. Apparently, we’ve been practicing penalties. But it usually takes me three days to get over these games and if we win, three days later we’ll be playing again.

And let’s say we win the whole thing. (Let’s just say. It doesn’t hurt to say). The intense joy that everyone who loves football would take from England winning the world cup would pervade every aspect of our lives. And as a bonus, upset every non-football fan, and that can only be a good thing. If England somehow manage to lift the trophy, our country will be a nicer place for months. Less road rage, less criminality, more polite conversations with strangers. Cab drivers would probably let you pull out. It would be like the entire country had moved to Scandanavia.

Not for the first few days obviously. For the first few days, I’d suggest closing the curtains and staying in unless you desperately want to have good-natured but essentially pointless conversations with drunken young men. I’m not saying that society would completely break down but try getting a plumber twenty four hours after England win the world cup and I think you’d be in trouble.

And yet, fantastic as it would be to see an England win, I have mixed feelings about the prospect. It wouldn’t be the first time. Back in the eighties, in the dark days of hooliganism and right wing extremists, I found it hard to support England. How could I want a team to win who’s most vocal supporters were racists. It would have been like supporting Chelsea (that is a joke by the way although there was a picture last week of a ginger Chelsea fan doing a nazi salute at the cup semi-final last weekend. Stupid boy. If the Nazis ever did come to power, gingers would be among the first to go). If England won back then, I’d be happy but the racists would be happy too and I wasn’t pleased about that. I remember going to Luxembourg for a world cup qualifier. Now Luxembourg is less of a country and more a large village in Europe and gangs of England football fans rampaged through the main street turning over cars and setting light to them while doing nazi salutes. It was the national equivalent of a grown man punching a five-year old girl in the face and it was embarrassing and terrifying in equal measure.

Things have changed now. England fans are cuddlesome lovely creatures who preach racial harmony and tolerance. OK that’s not strictly true but the overtly racist element seem to have disappeared or at least quietened down. You do still get the odd clump of old school bigots singing a desultory chorus of ‘No Surrender to the IRA’ but even they know that with the IRA having decommissioned it’s weapons, it’s very unlikely we’d have to surrender to them anyway.

But now a new generation of fans seem to have taken over. Families with kids, professional people. Not that either of those can’t be obnoxious but I’ve never seen a gang of boozed up stockbrokers marauding through a foreign town square scaring the locals. At least not at football matches. Rugby’s more their thing.

So it’s not the fans that upset me any more. It’s the players. If England win the world cup on July 11th and John Terry and Ashley Cole become feted national heroes, surely I’m not the only person to feel ambivalent about that outcome.

But hey, I’m probably getting ahead of myself. And I know for sure that once the games have started, I’ll be cheering along with everybody else. And if by some miracle we get to the finals and we’re playing Germany and it goes to penalties and John Terry is striding forward to take the decisive kick…..well I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. Although perhaps “crossing that bridge” is not the most sensitive phrase I can use when I’m talking about John Terry.

Thursday 15 April 2010

World Cup Fever 1

Just under two months to go to the World Cup and my pre World Cup training is going very well. The TV appears to be working fine and has a years guarantee. My sofa cushions are fluffed and ready. Unless there’s a run on alcohol, my local supermarkets have assured me that stocks will remain buoyant throughout the summer months. My girlfriend has been warned that any non-football related programmes on TV between June 8th and July 11th are subject to match scheduling.

Yes my preparations are right on target. Which is more than can be said for my team. Even with our best manager since Sir Alf, any good feelings we had about England’s prospects have been tempered by a series of unfortunate mishaps. Our goalkeepers continue to give us collective heart attacks every time they need to make a clearance, our defenders hurt themselves in a variety of ways both physical and emotional, our midfielders run themselves into the ground for their clubs and our attackers, aside from one obvious exception blow hot and cold. And at this point, even that one attacker is injured although hopefully only for a short period. It’s all probably for the best. Unbounded optimism almost always ends in tears.

There’s no doubt that Fabio Capello has instilled a winning mentality in the squad and our first eleven are a match for most teams but the chances of those eleven arriving in South Africa fit and healthy are about the same as John Terry becoming a celibate Sufi and relinquishing all earthly pleasures. And even if everyone’s available come June 10th, there’s no reason to suppose that they’ll still be available, if by some miracle they’re still needed, four weeks later.

Of course one can hope. It’s the hope that keeps you alive as someone once said, possibly me. I’ve always been a glass half full sort of guy and I’ve been known, after a fair number of full glasses, to make a very convincing case for England to win the World cup. To the point where my friends don’t actually like listening to me because they start to believe and then they’re massively let down when England invariably go out to the first decent team they play.

Strangely enough, this time around I’m not as optimistic. There are so many potential dangers. Spain in particular look absolutely brilliant. Any team that can leave out Cesc Fabregas, Javi Alonso and Pepe Reina are definitely better than us. As for Brazil, well they’re Brazil. Can we beat them? Theoretically yes. Will we? Probably not. France may have only qualified because of Thierry Henry’s handball and they’re undoubtedly past their best but if we got them in the second round, would there be a person in England who’d actually expect us to win. Germany always come good in the finals and there’s no way we’d be confident of beating them. Holland are good. Portugal are good. Argentina only just qualified but Lionel Messi could win the whole thing on his own if Diego Maradona (Boo!) got his cocaine addled, dog ravaged head round the fact that he needs to build his team around the little genius. Ivory Coast have Didier Drogba and any team with him in the line-up cannot be taken lightly. USA were quarter-finalists last time and all three of their goalkeepers are probably better than ours.

On the positive side, the weather will be in our favour. (For future reference, we have to lobby hard for all upcoming world cups to be played in countries where cloudy with sporadic showers is the most common climate).

But like I say, I don’t think we’ll win. The last time we got close was twenty years ago. And when we didn’t win, the whole nation went into a collective state of such depression and lack of self-esteem that we re-elected John Major two years later. Perhaps that should be our inspiration. If Major can be Prime Minister, anything’s possible. Portsmouth beat Spurs in the FA Cup semi-final last weekend and no-one saw that coming. Even the mad Portsmouth bloke with the bell. But maybe we need a little extra help. Let’s put everything into the bid for 2018, make the Wembley pitch even worse than it is now and then schedule all the England home games there and watch us fly.