Who's the w****r in the black?

Thirty-two countries and their management and players have been making meticulous preparations for the World Cup. Franco Baldini has flown to South Africa to measure the length of the grass on the training pitch for goodness sake. Nothing has been left to chance. It would be a shame to have it all spoiled by some attention-seeking idiot with a whistle. Who’s the w****r in the black?

For all the talent and ability on display every four years, World Cups are often influenced and sometimes decided by refereeing decisions. Who can forget Clive Thomas blowing the whistle for the end of the game as the ball was in the air from a corner just before Brazil scored what they thought was the winning goal? Or what about a certain Tunisian gentleman who was the only person on earth who didn’t see Maradona handle the ball for Argentina. Our very own Graham Poll didn’t exactly cover himself in glory when he booked the same Croatian player three times in one game. It can’t be easy what with these teams all wearing the same shirts but then that’s what numbers are for.

I’ve got a history with referees. Once, at Hendon during a game in The Isthmian League, my father was so incensed by a poor decision that he ran onto the pitch and offered the referee his glasses. Almost everyone in the ground laughed. Both sets of players, the managers, the two linesmen, the tea ladies and the stewards. The only people who didn’t laugh were me and the referee.

Now that I’m older, I’m the one out of my mates who’s most prepared to give the referee the benefit of the doubt. While the people around me have been screaming for a penalty for our boys, I’ve been admiring the beauty of the defenders tackle (ooh er missus!). That’s not to say that I don’t get irate at refereeing decisions. It happens every ten minutes or so. Sometimes when I’m not even watching a match. But with all the diving and cheating that goes on, I think refs should be commended for getting it right most of the time.

They get no help from FIFA. They might have come up with the idea of a fourth official but they appear, like The Queen, to only have ceremonial powers, their sole function seeming to be as a target for the manager’s anger. Video evidence, specifically goal line technology has been rejected on the grounds that it’s not always correct although nor are linesmen. Sorry, assistant referees. And anyway, why isn’t it always correct? How is it that we can send men into space but it’s beyond our finest minds to come up with a foolproof way of telling if a ball has crossed a line? Surely that’s a more useful invention than the non-stick pan.

Sepp Blatter who seems to have been in charge of football about the same length of time that Castro has been in charge of Cuba, has also suggested that the enforced stoppages while video evidence is examined slows the game down. But let’s face it, nowadays it takes at least two minutes to get a wall formed and take a free kick so I’m not sure that argument holds water. The other objection is that this technology can only be adopted if it’s available for use at all levels of the game. Which is palpably nonsense. When a professional gets a slight muscle strain, at least six men run on with a stretcher, oxygen and a defibrillator. Whereas, in my Sunday games, it’s not unknown for someone with a broken leg to drive themselves to hospital.

They won’t even sanction electronic timing for games, which we all know would instantly render any time wasting tactics null and void. ‘Take as long as you like over that kick goalie. The watch only starts when the ball is in the air’.

Having said all of that, it’s certain that there will be some terrible referees at the World Cup. Even our own representative, Howard Webb, who a few years ago seemed like the natural successor to Pier Luigi Collina, has gone a bit weird this season. Initially, I thought that like Collina, the shaved head was the key but it seems that it’s what’s in the head that’s important and not the lack of what’s on it.

And it’s also certain that some poor team will suffer from an outrageous decision and they’ll have to swallow it and wait four years for another crack. But if it’s us, I might send my Dad onto the pitch to have a word.