New wooly jumpers for goalposts

Football’s festive period is now almost at a close and for those of you like me who support teams struggling to keep their heads above water at the bottom end of the table, it’s not a time for celebration.

With two games played in the space of three days and the season reaching its halfway point, the Christmas fixtures are often said to make or break seasons. This year late fightbacks from Arsenal, Chelsea and Manchester United have kept them on track for the title, when defeat could have potentially led them way off course. Portsmouth’s Boxing Day defeat means survival for the south coast club is about as likely as their players receiving their wages this month, whilst Steven Gerrard FC, sorry, Liverpool’s laboured victory over Wolves keeps their thinning hopes of a successful season just about alive.

My own team West Ham endured mixed fortunes over the festive period. In fact, it’s hard to remember a time when our fortunes were anything other than mixed. We have spent the last few seasons signing talented players only to see them see out their contracts on the treatment table. We’ve produced precocious youngsters, only to wave goodbye to them as they seek fame and fortune at bigger, more glamorous establishments. And we’ve won plaudits for an outstanding performance in a cup final, only to board the coach back home with runners up, and not winners medals. If we were a child on Christmas Day, we’d have received the best remote controlled car in the world, only for our Dad to have forgotten to buy any batteries.

This Christmas, we won a dull but vital encounter against Portsmouth, and lost a dull, but vital and eventually painful match against Spurs. The three day period was a microcosm of what supporting a football team is all about. The high experienced after winning the season’s earliest relegation six-pointer was no match for the low I felt as we crumbled against our local rivals, and I prepared for the abusive texts from Spurs-supporting friends to flood in.

To compound our misery, the influential Scott Parker hobbled out of the Spurs game early on, and was followed to the treatment table by our left-back Herita Ilunga. If that wasn’t enough, our sole remaining senior forward, Guillermo Franco picked up a booking that will see him suspended for the next game. Things are so bad, I’m pretty sure I am just one more hamstring pull away from a call up to the squad.

So with our squad falling to pieces, it would be easy to argue that playing two games in such quick succession is too much to ask of today’s footballers. Other leagues such as those in Spain and Italy do not have a Christmas schedule, and many of the foreign managers and players in the Premier League are baffled by our expectation that players forgo board games with the family and piles of turkey leftovers in order to play fixtures on Boxing Day.

But football at Christmas is one of the few things in modern football that is retained for the sake of the fans. Whilst some families choose to spend Boxing Day visiting distant relatives, any self-respecting fan will know the only rightful place for them to be is in their regular seat at the ground, proudly sporting their new Christmas knitwear and cheering on their team.

Unsurprisingly for West Ham, I’ve had some excellent days at football on Boxing Day, as well as some downright terrible ones. Consecutive 5-0 and 4-0 wins over Charlton and Derby respectively were particular highlights, whilst a visit to Fratton Park to witness a drab 1-1 draw remains a low point. In fact, that trip to Portsmouth was not just a low point as a football fan, but in my life in general. Take your pick from the five hour round trip, 1960s standard facilities, arctic weather and terrible football match as to what made it such a bad experience.

But whilst talk of a winter break continues to be whispered in the corridors of power at the Premier League, the Christmas fixtures simply have to stay. The fans look forward to them more than games played over any other period of the season, and a lot of terrific football is often played – with teams trying to make the most of injury-hit squads and looking to end the calendar year on a high. Ambitious and simply fed-up players will often reserve their best performances of the season for the festive period too – with the transfer window just about to be creaked open.

In fact, it could be argued that the season really starts here. As we head into the New Year, the countdown to the end of the season seems to tick that little bit quicker and the collective loosening of ties at both the top and bottom of the table begins. With my own club’s squad decimated by injuries and our finances looking like they’ve been managed by Nick Leeson with a hangover, I only hope that 2010 brings some good fortune both on and off the pitch.

Fortune always hiding

Saturday was my nephew’s first birthday party, and what a joyous occasion it was. There were kids crying, kids laughing and then crying, kids playing with toys and then kids crying with toys.

Fun was had by all, but something completely of my own doing made me feel very sorry for little Archie – I’d bought him a West Ham kit for a present. In years to come, he will curse me for signing him up to follow this purveyor of disappointment that likes to masquerade as a football club. Hopefully though, he’ll also eventually understand that I had no choice, just like he doesn’t either.

In any football following family, new entrants are restricted to two options when it comes to deciding who to support; following the team that the rest of the family supports, or not following football at all.

There can be no period of analysis where primary school children take a couple of years to watch the 92 league teams England has to offer, before making a calculated decision on who to follow based on style of football, chances of success and the quality of the matchday pies. No, you are born into a football club – instructed to give your unconditional love to the team of your family.

Usually, this will be the team closest to your Dad or Granddad’s family home. Unfortunately for Archie, he has drawn the footballing short straw and his family are from East London and therefore has no choice but to follow West Ham.

On the day of his first birthday and the donning of his first replica shirt, Archie’s now beloved West Ham were soundly beaten 4-0 at home by Manchester United. Both his father and uncle were there to witness the massacre, and in just a few short years Archie will be able to experience the full horror of being a hammer all for himself.

You might think it cruel that we subject the boy to a life of such misery. Couldn’t we give him the choice? Maybe he’d prefer to support Arsenal or Spurs? What if he doesn’t like football? Well first of all, supporting Arsenal or Spurs is simply not an option. Nor is supporting Chelsea, Leyton Orient, Crystal Palace or anyone else in, or outside of the M25 who is not called “West Ham United”. And secondly, the idea that he might not like football is perfectly realistic, but far, far too frightening a thought for any of us to seriously contemplate at this stage.

But most importantly, it’s his duty. I don’t mean that in a clichéd Peggy Mitchell style “families stick together” way. No, what I really mean is that all the rest of us have had to endure over 20 years plus of abject football poverty, so too can Archie. He might get lucky after all. In the 27 years prior to my birth, West Ham had won the FA Cup three times, the Cup Winner’s Cup once and of course, the World Cup in 1966. The most purple of all purple patches in the club’s history. However, since my birth we have lost an FA Cup final and got relegated three times.


So we’re all hoping that Archie’s arrival into the welcoming arms of the West Ham family will mark the beginning of a new era of success. Deep down we know it probably won’t, but for Archie’s sake alone, I genuinely hope it does. And even if he suffers in the same way as I have, being a Hammer will be good for him in the long run.

By supporting West Ham, he will quickly learn that you can’t have everything in life, and pretty soon after that will also learn that you actually can’t have much at all. He will become a world-renowned expert in false dawns, and will develop the spirit that will see him live through the bad times as well as the slightly less bad times. But he will also find out that sometimes it’s good to have a bit of excitement and not just go through the motions. And perhaps most importantly, he’ll soon realise that if you’re not going to be very successful at what you do, you might as well look bloody good whilst you’re doing it.

Ich Liebe Hertha!

My efforts to get this week’s live football fix saw me take a departure from the blood and guts of the English Premier League, and instead head for the slightly odd world of the German Bundesliga.

After three days of absorbing the fascinating history and bizarre food of Berlin, my brother and I decided to venture to the Olympic Stadium to lend our support to our new second team – Hertha Berlin. Sitting at the bottom of the league and conceding goals on what must be a commission basis; there were obvious similarities between our own team West Ham, and the German capital’s premier club.

We were hoping that this loose connection may be strengthened as the experience progressed. Perhaps Hertha sing a German rendition of “Bubbles” before kick off? Or maybe they play in the same enterprising but ultimately unsuccessful style? Whatever the case, we were willing Hertha to convert us into lifelong fans. We understood their pain, and were ready to join in their suffering.

As we boarded the train towards the stadium there was barely room to see out of the window and it was clear the attendance would be on the large side. It was also clear that the crowd would be in good spirits, with seemingly every single man, woman and child regularly swigging from huge bottles of beer. Boris Johnson would have been most annoyed.

Our walk towards the ticket office saw us pass a plethora of merchandise stalls – many selling official products and many more selling cheap imitations. I bought a cheap imitation scarf in the blue and white stripes worn by Hertha – mainly as a way of surviving the arctic temperatures but also as an attempt to fit in with my new colleagues.

As we queued for the tickets and practised our unique blend of German, English and English words said in German accents, we were struck by how cheap the tickets were for a game played in what has to be considered one of the most impressive stadia in Europe – just 16€ each. We skipped away from the ticket booth with the look of people that had been mistakenly undercharged and were trying to flee the scene before being asked to pay the accurate amount.

Unlike in most English grounds, the turnstiles for the stadium were set some 50 metres away from the actual structure. Once through the gates, we were greeted to something akin to a summer festival - with plenty of bars, food outlets, merchandise stalls and participation activities for the fans to enjoy. An odd playlist including the likes of Lady Gaga and Kool and the Gang blared out of the back of a brand new 4x4 vehicle, which I presume was the prize for some competition we were unaware of or didn’t understand we had entered. To the left of the action, a group of children were playing football on a small patch of grass. It all had the feel of something arranged by Radio 1 rather than a professional football club.

Once inside the ground, we were instantly hit by its sheer size. We were later to learn that just shy of 50,000 people were at the match, but in a ground that cavernous the clusters of empty seats that did exist looked as if they numbered tens of thousands rather than a few hundred.

Our seats were behind the goal and gave us an excellent view of the ground’s interior in its entirety. We also found that we had been placed directly above the section reserved for Hertha’s most vocal supporters. Half an hour before the game was due to kick off, the section was packed with thousands of flag waving and scarf bearing (albeit with scarves tied at the writs, not the neck) fans, who were being whipped into a frenzy by an unseen figure with a megaphone. His tinny instructions were followed en masse by loud, aggressive chants and occasionally jumping movements.

As we approached kick off, the PA system played the club’s official song which my brother and I instantly recognised as a German version of Rod Stewart’s “Sailing”. I’m not sure if Scotland’s biggest cockney is aware that one of his songs is used to inspire a German football team, but I think even he would be surprised that they had chosen “Sailing” in particular. Although I can’t imagine “Hot Legs” or “If you think I’m sexy” would be much use in helping Hertha claw their way out of relegation trouble either.

The most bizarre spectacle of the evening was reserved for after the official song had been sung though. With kick off just seconds away, the lights within the ground were turned off and the pitch was in complete darkness. A neon light show then began at one end of the ground, as dramatic classical music roared out of the speakers. It was pure choreographed live entertainment and like nothing either of us had seen at a football match before. In fact, we were half expecting Simon Cowell, Danni Minogue et al to emerge from the tunnel and not football players.

With the light show over and the game underway, it was clear that Hertha and West Ham share a number of similarities on the pitch - even if not off it. Their nervy defence looked like being breached with every attack, and despite the midfield’s efforts to get the ball to the forwards; they looked less than dangerous as an attacking force. In saying that, the visitors FC Koln were hardly impressive and there seemed to be a gulf in quality compared with what even the most mediocre of Premier League teams are capable of.

At half time it was 0-0 and neither goalkeeper had really been called into action. As our German friends concentrated on refilling their plastic beer flasks, we made the most of the unexpected opportunity to visit the club shop. The club’s lowly league position and poor first half performance had done little to diminish the home supporters’ love of their team – with replica shirts, scarves and dog leads in Hertha colours all being snapped up in their droves.

We returned to our seats to find the hardcore Hertha supporters still being instructed by the man with the megaphone, and still in good voice. Unfortunately there was no change on the pitch either, as both sides struggled to keep the ball and create any chances. Hertha were slightly better though, and the majority of the remainder of game was played out in FC Koln’s half. We sensed a goal was coming, and we were right. Unfortunately it was for the visitors, as the Hertha defence fell asleep at a late set piece.

Just as at West Ham this season, the home fans had seen this story before and knew the ending only too well. Many of them were heading for the exit and my brother and I joined them as yet another Hertha attacked fizzled out without an attempt on goal. As we sat on the train home, we were genuinely disappointed and I knew then that I had what it takes to follow Hertha.

The casual alcoholism, odd soundtrack and game show-style set up made the whole experience slightly surreal. In England, it would have been attacked for being so contrived and commercially driven but somehow it all seemed to work. The atmosphere throughout our time at the ground was excellent. Families watched the game alongside groups of hardened thirty something males, and everyone seemed to join in the fun.

Going to the match seemed to be like a huge event that was there to be enjoyed rather than endured, making a welcome change from the misery of sitting at the foot of the Premier League. I very much hope to make a return trip to see Hertha, and that my cheap imitation scarf survives to join me.

Should I stay or should I go?

Picture the scene: your team is 2-0 down at home against one of the premier league’s top four. You haven’t won for eight matches and the last two fixtures have been particularly soul destroying – first drawing against ten men despite having a man advantage for the majority of the game, and second losing comfortably to one of the league’s also-rans. There are fifteen minutes to go; do you stay and pray for a fightback? Or resign yourself to another defeat and leave the ground?

On Sunday, I opted for the latter and have been paying the price ever since. For almost as soon as I exited the turnstile, West Ham’s fightback began with a Carlton Cole header. A few minutes later they had managed an equaliser and only a harsh red card prevented them from turning the game on its head and emerging with all three points.

Now obviously I’m delighted that my team has picked up a point against a London rival and one of the league’s title contenders. That they showed such spirit and determination to do so is even more encouraging as we look to edge away from the relegation places. But a big part of me is ashamed of my actions, and I feel uncomfortable celebrating my team’s apparent turning of the corner.

I feel like I’m on the outside of an in-joke – the one that wasn’t there “that time that thingy did that thing” down your local. Scanning the papers and watching the news after the game was like seeing coverage of an alien game – one I did not attend and know nothing about. The game I attended was a drab, pedestrian encounter where my team looked like playing for days on end without ever troubling the opposition’s goalkeeper. This match they keep playing on the news had goals, mistakes, red cards and a sense of a new beginning for my team.

This is not the first time I have left the ground early only to miss a vital goal or incident, and it almost certainly won’t be the last. There is a school of thought that a loyal supporter should never leave a game early. But by virtue of being a loyal supporter, it’s likely that you would have experienced as many (if not more) disappointments as you would have triumphs. You have seen games turn from good, to bad, to worse and others peter out into something akin only to a training session. Sometimes, it gets too much and the lure of the early train home or a cold pint of lager and big screen analysis of the match becomes too much to resist.

At this point I’d like to make it clear that I am not one of those supporters who tucks their programme into their pocket and heads for the exit at the first sign that anything less than three points will be coming my team’s way. Almost sadistically, I’ve sat through many dreadful performances where the opposition seem to score at will. I’ve optimistically stayed in the vain hope that we’ll battle back from 3-0 down against the champions, and I’ve sat rooted to my seat when the majority of the crowd are probably listening to the rest of the game in the car on the way home.

Two games stick in my mind when I think of the question Is it ever acceptable to leave a game early? The first concerns good old Wimbledon and dates back to 1998. The game was played of an evening, although away from the glare of the TV cameras (West Ham Wimbledon not attractive enough to put on TV shock). West Ham raced into a 3-0 lead and looked as comfortable as is possible for a team with a history of comical defending. Just before half-time, Wimbledon scored what we all assumed was a consolation goal.

The start of the second half saw a new Wimbledon emerge – one full of running and endeavour. Unfortunately, the same old West Ham decided to play the second half instead of the uncharacteristically ruthless one that took to the field in the first half. Before we knew it, it was 4-3 to the visitors and the stadium was almost empty. I refused to leave – foolishly believing that having already scored three we could muster one last successful attack. I was of course mistaken.

The second involves our new-found rivals Sheffield United. This was back to our Championship days and was a much more prosaic affair. So prosaic in fact, that I can only assume that the mind-numbing nonsense served up by both sides that day had set me into a trance, and rendered me incapable of leaving my seat. It was as if both teams had agreed to a reverse of the 1914 Christmas Day armistice, and were point blank refusing to play football.

These are just two examples of many games I have endured until the final whistle, where I know for a fact my time would definitely have been better spent heading for the tube, the bar or the dentist for the extraction of all my teeth without anaesthetic. And yet, I still feel I have let my team down with my actions on Sunday.

I hope to God I have learnt my lesson and will not leave a game before the fat lady has began the first verse again, but the ghosts of Wimbledon and Sheffield United still loom large and can see Sunday’s events happening again, and again, and again.

Gambling: a mug's game

As most of us know only too well, gambling is not big, clever or funny. And when it comes to football, gambling is probably even smaller, dumber and more humourless than it is in all its other forms.

For not only can the outcome of a match be dictated by a strange man dressed in black who often appears to be blowing his whistle completely at random, the sheer number of people who can prevent your hopeful punt coming off means betting on football makes very little sense at all.

At any one time there are 22 players on the pitch who are in control of your destiny. Just one moment of outrageous quality or equally unbelievable incompetence can put pay to any hope that your brief visit to Ladbrokes will finance a very good Saturday night out.

When betting on multiple teams as part of an accumulator, there’s even more opportunity for one fool to ruin your chances of success. If betting on seven teams to win, there are 308 players on the pitch at any one time. 308 people you need to do as you say. 308 people with genuine potential to both make and ruin your weekend.

I’m well aware of all this, and yet the seven team accumulator is my bet of choice. I have been placing £5 on my chosen seven teams pretty much every week for three years now. I have only ever won once – reeling in the princely sum of £181. I could quite easily work out how much I have laid out on accumulators over the past three years, and it would be just as simple to work out my profit/loss margins. It would be easy, but also depressing and a little scary so I’ll refrain from doing so.

Losing accumulators is something of a science for me though. It’s not a case of picking seven random teams and hoping for the best, oh no. My teams are picked based on a usually-losing combination of current form and random soft-spottery, whilst some clubs are excluded from my list because of a number of perfectly reasonable rules.

For one, I never bet on my own team - which has nothing to do with a misplaced confidence in their ability. In fact, it’s the opposite. If I had to trust one team to always perform to their ability it wouldn’t be my team, and willing them to win is stressful enough when there’s no money riding on it to be honest.

Rival teams cannot be picked either. Otherwise, you find yourself in the gut-wrenching position of having to scream at the TV in support of a usually hated team and no amount of money will make me do that. The same goes for teams placed in a similar league position to my team. Willing them to win will damage my own team’s chances of success this year, and that’s not something I’m prepared to support.

So after studying the league tables and reminding myself of the accumulator rules, I headed to the betting shop this weekend hopeful of repeating that famous day in August when I found myself £181 richer. My chosen list looked a little like this:

Everton v Wolves (home win) – a choice made based on form. Everton are strong at home and Wolves are weak pretty much everywhere. Result – 1-1.

Cardiff v Crystal Palace (home win) – a fairly irrational hatred of Palace and Cardiff’s good recent form led to me putting my faith in the Bluebirds. Make that misplaced faith. Result – 1-1.

Doncaster v Barnsley (draw) – the most random choice of all this week, based largely on Barnsley’s recent revival. Believing I’d picked the Tykes to win I celebrated their late winner. Until I remembered I’d lost my bottle and selected the draw. Result – 0-1.

Ipswich v Swansea (home win) – Ipswich are a regular fixture on my list, even despite their dreadful start to the season. This week I genuinely believed they’d turn the corner and get that much needed win. Thanks guys. Result 1-1.

West Bromwich Albion v Reading (home win) – my Dad has a genuinely irrational soft-spot for West Brom. He makes no attempt to explain it, and openly cheers them on despite having no connection to the West Midlands. I put this result down based on this and it turned out to be one of very few correct predictions. Result – 3-1.

Accrington v Bournemouth (away win) – after reading an article about Accrington’s dire financial situation and seeing Bournemouth were topping League 2, this was an easy choice to make. Although admittedly a completely unsympathetic one. Result – 0-1.

Hibernian v Kilmarnock (home win) – my one foray into the Scottish league strangely does not involve Celtic or Rangers, who are usually safe bets. Hibs luckily come up trumps though, although it’s all in vain. Result 1-0.

So all in all not a successful weekend, but one definitely made more enjoyable by the placing of my £5 accumulator. It allowed me to enjoy the novelty of cheering on such footballing heavyweights as Bournemouth and Hibernian and for one small moment midway through the second half of Saturday’s fixtures, I began to truly believe I might just have a chance of success. I’d already started to plan how to spend the £629 I was due, and was perfecting the look of smugness I was planning on wearing across my face as I approached the counter to collect my winnings.

Alas it was not to be, and it’s another £5 to add to the “loss” column. I’ll be back next week though, placing my hard-earned fiver and ready to lend my support to the great unwashed of English football for 90 minutes.

The pint is always half empty

Firstly, I’d like to apologise for this week’s entry being posted on a Tuesday and not a Monday. I realise this flies in the face of the whole premise of the blog, but hopefully you will see from this entry that there is good reason as to why I wasn’t able to tap out this week’s look at the beautiful game yesterday.

That good reason is that I spent yesterday evening in the pub. On my own. I know what you’re thinking but I definitely don’t have a drink problem. However, I do have a particularly bad not-having-an-ESPN-subscription problem and my team are playing away and it’s live on said broadcaster.

Watching football is one of only two pastimes I can think of that are acceptable to do alone in a pub. The other is reading the paper on a Sunday afternoon, accompanied by a cold pint or two. Anything else is almost certainly a convenient way to mask a mild form of alcoholism.

An attack of lethargy brought on by the fact that it’s Monday night and I’m far from confident that my team will take anything from the game means I can only muster enough energy to stroll down to the pub at the end of the road – rather than meet friends slightly further afield.

The local is a welcoming place tonight, with plenty of customers decked out in the colours of my team. After buying a drink, I seek out the most appropriate place for a man of 27 drinking on his own on a Monday night to sit. And by “most appropriate”, I obviously mean “least visible to others”.

As I’m slightly late and possibly as some kind of punishment for entering alone, the only seating position left is on a small stool placed just to the right of a huge plasma screen television. If it wasn’t for the fact that this seat is also placed in both touching and smelling distance of the men’s toilet, it would be a great spot.

Within two minutes of kick off my team are 1-0 down. Within five minutes it should be 2-0, and within 10 it could easily have been 4-0. Things are not going to plan and while I promised myself I would keep my head down and not draw attention to myself, my team are playing so abysmally that I’ve already stood from my stool and sworn loudly at the television a number of times.

Miraculously my team score against the run of play, and I’m one of many men who are on their feet and clapping footage of our striker celebrating. This feels a lot more comfortable. It doesn’t matter who you are down the pub with when you’re team scores – we’re all in this together right?

Not quite. The home side regain the lead and the pub puts it's collective head down. I look around, theatrically shaking my head and wording things like “shambles” to try and prompt some response from my fellow fans. It’s to no avail though, and everyone returns to their conversations – safe in the knowledge that our team will be collecting no points tonight.

Despite having an equaliser wrongly chalked off for a foul, my team are never really in the game again and the home side finish us off with a third goal – owed much to some comical defending on our part.
As the game draws to a close, a well oiled regular stops his charge to the toilet to address the corner of the pub where I’m positioned and ask who supports my team. I’m not in the mood to talk at this point, especially to a man who looks like he has actually enjoyed himself whilst this farce is played out on the screen. But given that he is little more than a yard away from me and staring straight at my face, ignoring him is not really an option.

Ignore him I do though, hoping he will be disheartened by the lukewarm response his question garnered and continue towards the toilet. Aptly enough for a night when most things go wrong, he asks again – this time addressing me specifically. As painful as it is, I admit to supporting my team and he rightly takes issue with me ignoring him originally. Great, a thumping defeat for my team and now the potential for an actual thumping for me.

The man sees I am broken already and offers the correct but insignificant consolation that our second goal should have stood. I agree and offer a half-hearted “never mind though” before exiting the pub as the referee blows the final whistle.

It’s not been an enjoyable night. I trudge back to my flat with my hands in my pockets, already working on a plan to convince my flatmates to subscribe to ESPN - thus saving me from having to suffer this indignity again.

The times they are a changing

Football has changed they say. Our national game is apparently now almost unrecognisable from the one played before the Premier League brought us such innovations as inflatable giant wrestlers way back in 1992.

The summer spending sprees of Manchester City and Real Madrid have heightened people’s perception of how much the game has changed. The sums paid for and to players now are astronomical. How can a fan empathise with his hero when that said hero is pocketing £90k per week regardless of whether his crucial penalty goes in or not?

English teams are now awash with foreign mercenaries who care more about their next transfer than where their next goal is coming from. They are charged with stunting the development of good English players, who are seemingly not getting the chance to show their ability at clubs they love and would die for.

Diving and play acting have also spread through the game like a cancer – supposedly shattering the image of England as country where fair play prevails. And football is also apparently less competitive than it ever was. The same four clubs compete for the domestic trophies year on year, whilst only a handful of Europe’s biggest clubs ever get to put their hands on a European trophy.

But let’s put the rose tinted spectacles back in the case and wipe the mist from our eyes for a second. Has the game really changed that much?

If you were to attend a premier league game, knowing none of the players and with only their numbers on their backs to identify them, you would find a game very similar if not almost identical to the one played pre-Sky TV. The backpass rule aside, the rules have barely changed and the game remains a contest between two teams of eleven men trying to score more goals than their opponents.

Most of the changes that have been made have been focussed more on the commercial and administrative side of the game than what actually happens on the pitch within 90 minutes (or 97 if you’re playing at Old Trafford). Many of them, such as improved stadia, have actually benefited football. Some, such as the weekend’s fixtures being routinely split over Saturday and Sunday, have not.

Players are still asked to do the same things on the pitch, regardless of how much they have in their bank accounts. Goals are still scored in the same way as they were, and in the most part, the same fouls are still against the rules.

The changes to the game that really rankle with me are the ones that make very little the actual game. Their objective is not to change the outcome of football matches, nor what actually goes on between the two goal frames for 90 minutes. No, these changes have been made purely to instigate an onset of nostalgia – bizarrely making me hanker for a time when my team played in the second division and fans fought on the terraces.

These are the things that shaped my experience of football. They prepared me for a lifetime of devotion to something I have no control over, and that ultimately leaves me disappointed. They are the things I miss when I think of the game I grew up with:


Really unprofessional non-league clubs in the FA Cup
The third round of the FA Cup was always when the season got interesting. Non-league teams facing top flight opponents really were from different worlds in days gone by. The amateurs would be a rag bag bunch of postmen, milkmen and people from any other profession that involves getting up early. The manager would wear a 50 year-old coat and keep an odd superstition like letting his dog sit in the dugout for every game. These days, their kits are made by Adidas, there’s at least 75% of the pitch covered in grass and the manager talks of “tactics” in his pre-match interview.

Whistling for time
Before the use of electronic boards to let teams know how much injury time was to be played, the fans of whoever was winning or in my own experience, desperately hanging on for a draw, would loudly whistle from 88 minutes onwards to encourage the referee to call time on the game. Once he went past the 90th minute, we were entering the unknown. The next kick could be the last, or there might still be time for your team to snatch a vital victory. You could be playing for a second, or seemingly all night. Nowadays, unless the figure “4” comes up on that board, you instantly know you might as well head for the car.

Cold war football
Whilst communism reigned supreme over Eastern Europe, there was something alluring about football clubs like Sparta Prague, Dynamo Moscow and Steaua Bucharest. We knew nothing of their players, yet suspected everything. They were often very talented teams who played in hostile environments. Muffled commentary would make it seem as though the games were being played on another planet, and the pictures seemed to confirm it. Now, thanks to the exhaustive Champions League coverage, we know all about these teams and to be honest, most of them are actually quite rubbish.

Evening kick offs
Is it me or do we play less games of an evening now? I seem to remember West Ham playing their fixtures during the 89/90 season exclusively at night. Perhaps it was an experiment by the league to see if evening football would create a less aggressive atmosphere for the hooligans get caught up in? Whatever it was, floodlit football seems to now only be the preserve of the Champions League elite and the entrants for the LDV Vans trophy (it is still called that right?).

Proceed, but with caution

England are going to win the world cup in South Africa next year. That is not an opinion, that is a fact my friends. Well, if you believe the man on the street, the journalist in the paper and the expert in the studio that is.

Having defeated a Croatia team with consummate ease last week, the England team is enjoying an unprecedented level of praise from its fans - who for the record are some of the hardest to please in the football world. Most, if not every England fan now firmly believes that the only possible outcome from next year’s tournament is an England victory.

With the tournament being played in an English speaking country and in a winter climate, the thinking is that England will never have a better chance to emulate the likes of Sir Geoff Hurst and the late Bobby Moore. Key players will be reaching their prime, and there is genuine competition for places from 1 to 11.

But does all this translate into England having a genuine chance of bringing home the ultimate prize? Or are they simply reasons for us to chastise our players even more if the seemingly inevitable happens and they return to Heathrow with tear-stained faces having been eliminated in the quarter finals on penalties by Portugal/Germany/Argentina (delete as appropriate).

The truth is we are a good side, with “good” being the operative word. We may have qualified with two games to spare and without dropping a single point, but being paired against the likes of Kazakhstan, Andorra and Belarus meant we weren’t exactly tasked with negotiating our way out of the group of death.

Other teams such as Holland, Spain and Germany have performed similarly well and will all go to South Africa with high hopes of winning the tournament. Brazil and Argentina (should they realise appointing Diego Maradona as coach was not exactly their smartest move and replace him in time to rescue their qualification campaign) will also be expecting an appearance in the final at least.

England can live with these teams, heck, they can probably even beat some of them. But beating Croatia and Slovenia in the space of four days doesn’t guarantee us victories against all other nations.

Those two victories have lured the nation into a false sense of security. Haven’t we learnt that the English national team has a capacity to disappoint like no other? The team almost exists for the sole purpose of disappointing people. It serves thousands of fans the lethal cocktail of just the right amount of hope, topped off with ultimate despair.

Yet we now believe we are invincible. Like a lager-fuelled moron in some suburban branch of Brannigans, we are slamming down our pints, holding our arms aloft and screaming “Come on then, I’ll take you all on, every single one of you” to the football world. Taking this naïve attitude to the world cup will, if we’re not careful, result in us being given a bloody nose- probably from the iron fist of Germany or the handbag of Argentina.

There are around nine months to the world cup and in that time Fabio Capello will look to build on the excellent improvements he has already made to the team. We have made a great deal of progress since the Italian took over, and even as it stands we will go to South Africa as one of the favourites.

We are playing well and have strength in depth, but this will not guarantee success. We will face stiff competition, and who knows how many of our squad will be nursing broken metatarsals come June.

The good thing is that unlike Sven Goran Eriksson during the last world cup, Capello is unlikely to let his squad talk of winning the thing. There will be nothing coming out of the England camp that suggests the folks back home should expect , not hope England win the tournament.

Capello will be calm, methodical and measured. The message will be clear - proceed, but with caution.

We’re still winning the fight against hooliganism

Now that the dust has settled and the blood dried from West Ham’s now infamous Carling Cup clash with Millwall, it’s time to take our sensationalist hats off and get some perspective.

Perspective is not something easily found in the modern media’s toolbox. An ability to overreact is a far more important attribute, and most of the country’s hacks didn’t disappoint in the aftermath of last week’s crowd trouble.

“The worst football violence for 30 years” the headlines screamed, as sub-editors suffered an attack of collective memory loss. Others called the violence “sickening” whilst there were even suggestions that England’s bid to host the 2018 world cup lay in tatters as a direct result of the actions of the West Ham and Millwall’s most idiotic of supporters (I’m not sure why – are West Ham and Millwall likely to be drawn in group E with Argentina and the Ivory Coast?),. This was football returning to the bad old days – when colours couldn’t be worn and police escorts were needed for all visiting fans.

Make no mistake, the violence in and around Upton Park was bad, very bad in fact and West Ham, if not Millwall as well deserve to be punished. However stylish and romantic Danny Dyer et al try to make football hooliganism, there isn’t a place for it in our game, and there never was. But the truth is that Tuesday night was far from the worst football violence for 30 years.

Yes the scenes outside of the ground were deplorable, and no fan should ever have to go to a football match with the worry of getting stabbed on their mind. And yes, the sight of West Ham fans willing to hit their own stewards in order to get to the Millwall end was disgraceful. Even the three pitch invasions that followed West Ham’s goals were in excusable – even if looked at in isolation the perpetrators were merely a pathetic collection of track-bottomed teenage boys and barrel-bellied morons rather than hardcore hooligans.

The distinguishing factor of Tuesday night’s violence from that of the 80s I witnessed when starting out as a football fan though, was that there was virtually no fighting between fans inside the ground. That is the kind of violence that blighted our game for nigh on 30 years – making fathers afraid to bring their children to games and away fixtures the preserve of the hardcore.

We don’t see it in England anymore. Despite what you might have read over the past week, stadium violence is not a problem here – certainly not in the Premier League. All seater stadiums have made it more difficult for opposing fans to mix. The use of CCTV and banning orders has prevented the persistent offenders from even getting into the grounds, and less heavy-handed policing means supporters are no longer treated like animals and whipped into frenzy.

The game has become more of a family affair. Many will say it’s worse off for it and I for one must admit to cringing when certain new breed fans loudly (but always politely) ask for others to sit down or worse – be quiet. But if this is the price we have to pay to make football safe again, then it is probably worth every penny.

In fact, the money it costs to go to football now has also played a role in tackling the “English disease”. Not only does it mean that the younger supporter who in the past might have been attracted to violence cannot go to games anymore, it raises the expectations people have from their “experience” of a football match. Do people really want to pay £50 to spend two hours trying to rip seats from the stands and fight with the police?

We have made great strides in preventing football violence in this country, and shouldn’t let one night blot what we have achieved. What Tuesday night showed is that we cannot be complacent. We must make sure that the police are prepared for violence outside of the ground, and have the resources to deal with it. Inside the ground, stewards need to be supported by the police, and clubs need to ensure their segregation arrangements are suitable.

But we mustn’t forget that we are seen as a world leader in tackling hooliganism. The problem is still very real within Italian grounds, whilst other countries such as Turkey still have plenty of work to do as well.

Tuesday night shouldn’t and probably won’t ruin England’s chances of hosting the 2018 world cup and providing we continue to put the effort into curing the English disease that we have done – I can think of no better place for it to take place.

Derby day blues once again

It’s derby match week this week – a fixture list anomaly that means my team plays its two deadliest rivals within the space of three days. The current score is one down, one to go.

In this case the one stands for defeat. For defeat is what I come to expect when it comes to local derbies. It’s an irrational pessimism, given that my team’s record against their rivals is no worse than anyone else’s. I’ve even enjoyed glorious victories over our rivals, both at home and away. We’ve ruined their season, they’ve ruined ours. It’s generally level pegging.

But something about local derbies makes me sick to the stomach. I get little or no enjoyment out of them until the final whistle blows and there can be no argument that my team has deservedly earned its victory. The build up is nervy, whilst the match itself is often agony.

Despite being 1-0 up against our deadly rivals on Sunday, my friend turned to me and said he felt sick. We were winning the game, playing well and all the signs were that we would go on to take the three points comfortably. Yet like my friend, my stomach is in knots and I’m beginning to sweat. Quite frankly, I’m petrified.

I’m already imagining the hundreds of ways they can score their equaliser. We look edgy at the back – maybe we’ll give a penalty away? The midfielder can hit a 30 yarder like no-one else – this looks like his day. Our keeper is playing far too well – surely he’s about to make a mistake soon? A thought which in the cold light of day, I know is laughable.

But like most fans, I’ve been scarred by a home defeat to our rivals before. Because it only takes that one defeat to ruin a lifetime of future derby days. Even if you have won 99 derbies before, the one defeat will stick in your throat more than any of those victories.

The eventual defeat on Sunday was almost a relief. It was what I was expecting, and it hurt far less than I imagined. I’d prepared myself for it, and now my pessimism was paying off by allowing me to get through the rest of the day without having to be moved away from sharp objects and deep water.

Maybe this is my coping mechanism? By expecting the defeat, victory will seem that bit sweeter when it does come along. Only the victories haven’t come along quite as often as I’d like in recent years. In fact, the novelty of predicting the correct result is wearing a little thin and there’s only so many times you can say “I told you so” without getting punched by your own friends.

Probably the most disappointing aspect of Sunday’s defeat was the lack of abuse I received from friends who support our rivals. It’s an unwritten law that the winners of derby day have the right to text, email and call their less fortunate friends with the most mocking of messages possible. Pretty much anything goes including spite, borrowed jokes and even bad jokes – who cares if your text is a feeble, playground standard effort? You’ve won the game so nothing they can say in response will make the slightest bit of difference to you.

As my team impotently attempted to salvage a point, I was gearing myself up for the abuse that was sure to come my way. I was imagining the comments and dreaming up the responses. I’d got to the point where I was willing the texts to come in. I was prepared this year. I wouldn’t reject the calls, ignore the texts and delete the emails without reading them. I had retorts that struck the balance between humour and spite, and would surely silence any and all goading.

Imagine my disappointment then when the only call I received from a rival fan was from a good friend who kindly agreed that it was an even game, and that it could have gone either way. He even commented on what a handful our centre forward was!

This is no way to treat a fan of a rival team you have just beaten. I’d sat there for 90 minutes, almost wanting his team to ruin my day so I could fire back just one of the responses I’d prepared. I wasn’t even granted that opportunity and although I didn't need reminding, it proved that even the smallest of pleasures are out of reach when you lose to your rivals.

Top four a step too far for City

Money talks – words uttered in many a gangster movie and even early 90s dance records, but now also in the world of football.

Money and football have always enjoyed a close relationship and contrary to the misty eyed recollections we so often hear, the days when players were only slightly better paid than the majority of the fans on the terraces are long gone. Even £100k a week wages no longer shock fans, whilst average players changes clubs for tens of millions of pounds.

The influx of money into the game has heralded many a false dawn. Jack Walker’s Blackburn spent their way to the title in 1995, only to be relegated shortly after his death and now find themselves annually kicking their way to survival under Sam Allardyce. Sergio Cragnotti managed to match Walker’s achievement by overseeing Lazio’s Scudetto triumph, but despite spending astronomical sums on the likes of Mendieta and Crespo, the dream turned sour and years of relative obscurity followed.

The latest club to join the nouveau riche of the game is Manchester City, and many feel they have a genuine chance of breaking into the Premier League’s top four, or even challenging for the title this year. They have spent the summer trailing some of the game’s top stars, as well as Joeleon Lescott, and now have one of the world’s most expensively assembled squads.

But does merely spending a lot of money guarantee success? City have brought in Emmanuel Adebayor, Kolo Toure, Gareth Barry and most controversially, Carlos Tevez. Undoubted Premier League talents but Barry aside, all considered surplus to requirements at their previous clubs.

Adebayor in particular had frustrated Arsenal fans throughout the duration of last season, whilst Toure had already effectively been replaced as a first choice centre half by new signing Thomas Vermaelen. And Tevez, despite earning cult status at Manchester United found himself further and further down the pecking order at Old Trafford the longer last season went on.

But in Gareth Barry, they may at least have found the defensive midfield shield they so badly need to provide balance to their top heavy squad. Barry has performed excellently for both England and Aston Villa over the last two or three seasons. Unspectacular but always reliable, he is as adept at ending opposition moves as he is at starting them for his own team. His positional sense and measured passing are attributes sadly lacking in most of today’s athletic footballers, and also from City’s whole team last term.

Apart from Barry, City’s most important players are arguably ones that were already there before the summer’s spending spree. Shay Given remains one of the league’s top goalkeepers and really should already be playing regular Champions League football, whilst Shaun Wright-Phillips is as popular with the sky blue fans as any of his more expensive colleagues.

And those fans will hope Stephen Ireland carries on where he left off last season. Uncharacteristically for a man who drives a pink trimmed Range Rover and was fined for dropping his shorts to his ankles during a match, Ireland went about his business quietly and professionally last season. He chipped in with some important goals, and his energy and pace troubled many a side – particularly those visiting Eastlands. He has matured and further improvement this year could mean City’s best chances of breaking the top four rests on the shoulders of a man who cost them absolutely nothing.

So will they do it? Can City break the monopoly of the Premier League’s top four? They’ve spent the money, have a big enough squad and are sure to have full houses at Eastlands every fortnight. But something tells me they will fall short.

Aston Villa and Everton have come close to doing it in recent years – mounting their challenges based on a team ethic and direct style crafted over a number of years. Piece by piece they have built a team to compete, but City are looking to move from the bottom half to the top four in just three years. At times last year, it was difficult to work out what their style of play was, or even their formation. Mark Hughes will take time to perfect his style, time he may not have if the current top four make the kind of starts expected of them.

Hughes and City will get there, but for the moment the wait continues.

It’s not the hope…

First round of Football League fixtures complete? Check. Community Shield decided on penalties? Check. Ludicrously timed international friendly coming up? Check. After a three month hiatus, football is well and truly back.

The first week of the season is always exciting for any fan. For many, it means the end of a summer of Saturdays spent trawling round indoor shopping centres with their partners. Whilst others will don their new replica shirt and head to the first match, fully expecting another season of silverware and the bragging rights in the office.

But what excites all fans from the lowest rungs of the football ladder to the promised land of the Premier League’s top four, is the hope of the first week. A decent win on day one puts you top of the league. A run of three wins will be considered good at any time of the season, but in the early weeks it will be enough to make fans think this really is their year.

Newly relegated clubs meet recently promoted ones, both on a level playing field when just three months ago they were two divisions apart. Strikers score first day hat-tricks only to wait until the New Year for their next goals. Summer signings look like world beaters, new managers like even better Jose Mourinhos. The first week is full of hope. Anyone can win the cup, and anyone can win the league.

But just as the referee blows the whistle on the first 90 minutes of the 2009/2010 football season, some fans will already know they won’t win the cup, and they won’t win the league. Where their colleagues still have hope in their heart on Saturday night, they have despair.

One game down, and already bottom of the league. The new striker looks worse than the old one, and the manager still doesn’t have a clue. Even worse, the beer in the bar is flat and the Bovril lukewarm.

Fans of Norwich City will know this feeling only too well, having just seen their team beaten 7-1 at home by the mighty Colchester United on the first day of the season. Two fans reacted to the team’s dismal performance by storming onto the pitch and throwing their season tickets towards Norwich’s manager Bryan Gunn. Fittingly on a day when Norwich played almost as badly as is humanly possible, they missed.

Norwich fans must be thinking things can’t get any worse than that. The logical approach would be to assume that the result was a freak, and that the season’s low point has already passed. Things can only get better right?

Well football fans don’t really do logic. Norwich fans are much more likely to be thinking that this is just the start of a hopelessly miserable season.

They will do well to remember the old adage that a football season is a marathon and not a sprint though. There are 46 games in League 1, and Norwich fans will surely not endure such an embarrassing afternoon again before the season is out.

As fans we know only too well how quickly things can change in football. Whilst we start the season full of hope, we know despair is just around the corner. But twist and turns are what bring us back to our seats time and time again, and whoever tops the table this week is just as likely to prop it up come May. And of course, vice versa.

Whilst the despair won’t kill us, the hope just might…

RIP Sir Bobby

Thousands of words have already been written about the sad passing of Sir Bobby Robson on Friday, and it would be easy to think there is little more anyone else can say.

But for a man so universally loved, it would also seem something of an insult not to recognise his prodigious achievements and the affection with which he is held in this country.

For me, Sir Bobby Robson represents an age of innocence. I was just eight years old when Italia 90 took place but had already been bitten by the football bug. Whether it was through childish naivety or times really were different, it seemed that the country was willing England to give it their all and go as far as they can, rather than today’s expectation to win every competition they enter.

I remember wearing my England shirt whilst sitting on the arm of my parents’ sofa, nervously willing England to somehow find a goal against Belgium. When David Platt hooked in Paul Gascoigne’s late free kick, Bobby danced and so did we.

I remember watching Robson furiously pace up and down as the tournament’s surprise package Cameroon very nearly added England to their list of high profile scalps.

And I remember Robson consoling my hero, Paul Gascoigne, as England’s last great talent was booked and subsequently suspended from a potential world cup final. Shortly after, England lost to West Germany on penalties and Robson was there again to be the shoulder for countless grown men to cry on. But he was also there to congratulate Franz Beckenbaur. As ever, a gentleman in defeat as well as victory.

Italia 90 was my nadir as a football fan and still brings back vivid memories for me. I still feel the pain of that penalty shoot-out defeat, and still get misty eyed at the thought of Gazza’s outrageously talented performances and desire to entertain – on and off the pitch.

But after watching a documentary on Sir Bobby Robson that was made whilst he was still Newcastle manager, it was clear that he shares the same passion for the game as us fans. 15 years on, he was still agonising over how close England came to reaching their first world cup final since 1966. 15 years and five clubs later, he was still thinking what might have been – telling the show’s presenter Gary Lineker that he believed England would have won the final against Maradona’s Argentina. He believed, because when you are a football fan belief is often all you have. Sir Bobby remained a football fan right up until his dying day.

During the same documentary he enthused about the facilities Newcastle’s St James’ Park offered its visitors. He stroked oak doors and marvelled at the grandeur of the place. It was as if a fifteen year-old schoolboy had been given the run of his hometown club for the day. Robson was not a fifteen year old schoolboy, but he was still as passionate a fan of the club as anyone else filing through the stadium’s turnstiles.

And whilst Jose Mourinho, Sir Alex Ferguson and Arsene Wenger will all go down as greats of the English game, they will never be as universally adored as Sir Bobby Robson. Not because they have any less talent than Sir Bobby, nor because they don’t share his passion. It’s because no-one managed to be a player, manager and fan all at the same time, and still be the happiest man in the ground. No-one except Sir Bobby.

More than a club

Anyone who has ever visited FC Barcelona’s magnificent Nou Camp stadium will be familiar with the phrase “mes que un club” or “more than a club”.

It features on match tickets, the team’s shirts and is spelled out in huge yellow letters on the stadium’s seats – exactly where the logo of beer companies, gambling websites and other corporate sponsors would usually be at less principled clubs. For Barcelona really is more than a club, and they will not let anyone forget it.

During Francisco Franco’s reign, the Catalan (and insignia of other regions such as the Basque country) flag and language was banned from public use. Football teams were forced to adopt the Spanish spelling of their names and remove any reference, signage or hint of regional identity.

The Nou Camp was a haven for anti-Franco Catalans during this time. Within the walls of the stadium was the one place people could express their true opinions, and in their native tongue. The club represented the Left’s struggle against the fascist regime, and Spaniards, Catalan or otherwise, became club members as a way of conveying their political allegiance without the danger attached to joining groups such as the Communist party. Barcelona was more than a club.

Today, those political ideals remain and are a major driving force behind the famous rivalry with Real Madrid – the team of Franco, the Royal Family and with a history of connections to the Spanish establishment. It’s a rivalry far more complex than anything English football has to offer, and demonstrates the importance football plays in the lives of Catalans and football fans across Spain.

When Pep Guardiola’s team beat Real Madrid, they are not just defeating their deadly rivals, but the country’s establishment. The people that have oppressed the city and the whole Catalan region – who attempted to strangle their culture.

That my club stands for playing attractive football and developing young players seems hopelessly insignificant compared to one that represents the spirit of a region and the country’s political left, and is often referenced in Spanish Civil War books.

But my club is still more than a club to me. It may not be connected to any romantic political ideology, but it still offers me absorbing escapism similar to that enjoyed by season ticket holders at the Nou Camp.

Supporting a football club properly is a thankless task that defies logic entirely. Fans put so much into something that they have absolutely no control over.

Like masochists, we hand over good money to watch games we know our teams will lose. We cheer players who kiss our shirt, only to be dumbfounded when they move across the city to our rivals. And we call radio stations to complain about the service we are getting, knowing full well there is no-one on the end of the line that can make the slightest bit of difference.

But just as we are now itching for the new season to start however dismally our teams performed last season, we will always go back. We are glutton for punishment, and have an addiction that Betty Ford and the Priory couldn’t begin to treat.

The love we have for our clubs is often unrequited, but always unconditional. It could not be offered to just a “club”. To the real fan, his or her football team is more than a club – whether that team is Barcelona or Blyth Spartans.

Owen odds on for success

Michael Owen’s surprise move to Manchester United has been seen by many as something of a gamble from Sir Alex Ferguson.

But on closer inspection, it would appear the only losers from this punt may well be the premier league clubs who declined the chance to sign England’s fourth highest goal scorer of all time.

It’s fair to say that United have lost arguably their two best players in the last month in Ronaldo and Tevez, and have replaced them with a 29 year-old from a relegated club, who many feel has seen the best of his career already.

Even Owen himself is unlikely to view his time on Tyneside as a success. Despite maintaining a decent scoring record when he played regularly, anyone watching Newcastle’s last month of the season (perhaps from behind the sofa) will have seen that Owen was rendered as impotent as anyone else by the gloom and uncertainty that guided the Magpies to the Championship.

These less than impressive performances, a lengthy history of injuries and the expectation of £100k plus a week wages meant Owen found himself frantically searching for new employers when his contract expired at the end of June.

So much so that his management company famously compiled a 32 brochure that aimed to entice clubs home and abroad into signing Owen for the coming season. That until Ferguson’s surprise intervention the brochure only attracted Hull City is akin to McDonalds marketing their burgers to middle class fitness fanatics, only to attract the class fat kid to the golden arches.

But Owen has been spared the ordeal of having to wear Hull’s garish amber and black strip, and will instead compete with Wayne Rooney and Dimitar Berbatov for a place in the starting 11 of the English and world champions.

Is it a gamble by Ferguson? Considering it has cost United nothing, the club will be paying Owen substantially less than he was getting at Newcastle and he is seemingly fit again, if it is a gamble it would appear to be one where the odds are stacked firmly in United’s favour.

Owen may well not be able to play 40-50 games a season, but at United he won’t have to. Like all big clubs, they enjoy the luxury of being able to rotate their teams at will – calling on a squad of international class. Just as Ferguson did with Teddy Sherringham ten years ago, he will make sure Owen rests when he needs it and is not rushed back from injury – taking the mental and physical pressure from him.

At Newcastle, Owen was expected to play, score and captain the side in every single game. He was seen as the man to end their long wait for silverware, and bring the good times back to the North East. But as is usually the case at Newcastle, things didn’t go as planned.

At United, Owen will still feel the weight of expectation on his shoulders, but he will have stars like Wayne Rooney, Rio Ferdinand and Ryan Giggs (and perhaps others by the end of the summer) to help him carry that burden. It could give him the freedom to enjoy his football again, and maybe score the goals to turn the head of Fabio Capello.

And if it doesn’t work out? United have not lost a penny in transfer fees, will be saving money on the wages paid to Ronaldo and Tevez and will still have a more than competent forward line to help maintain their place at the top.

If this is a gamble, I like the look of the odds.

Due to holiday, the next blog will be posted on Monday 27 July.

Putting the future first

Cast your minds back to the autumn of 2007 and the immediate aftermath of England’s 3-2 defeat to Croatia at Wembley.

The media were busily conducting their autopsy of English football, calling for an overhaul of coaching methods and proposing a limit on the number of foreign players plying their trade on these shores.

It was argued that the conveyer belt producing young English talent had ground to a halt, and the long wait for a major trophy would continue for many years to come unless something drastic was done to bring young players through our clubs again.

Fast forward nearly two years and the England under-21 team find themselves in the final of the European Championships, having beaten favourites Spain and held co-finalists Germany to a 1-1 draw despite fielding a second string side and having nothing to play for.

By the time you read this, England’s young stars are likely to have either covered themselves in glory or conformed to national stereotype and bowed out as gallant losers. Whatever the result of the final, we should be proud of their achievements and a fair few premier league teams should sit up and take notice.

For the under 21 team have proved that the reaction to England’s defeat to Croatia was knee jerk at best, ridiculous at worst. Although our young players may not be as creative or technically able as some of our southern European counterparts, they do possess equally important attributes and have the ability to play at the highest level.

It’s something that premier league clubs should be aware of. However, the much fabled “top four” are curiously under-represented in England’s squad for the under 21 tournament. Of the squad, only Kieran Gibbs, Theo Walcott, Michael Mancienne and Fraser Campbell play their club football for England’s four major clubs. And of those, only Walcott could really argue that he is a regular.

Liverpool for example, have failed to produce a young English player that has become a regular starter since Steven Gerrard emerged on the scene ten years ago. Their manager Rafa Benitez remarked on the club’s capture of Glen Johnson for £17m that because of the new champions league rules, he had to buy English and that to buy English players you have to pay over the odds. It was a naïve comment that bordered on idiotic.

Benitez has made little, if any effort to blood young local players into his squad. That is why he is now finding a sizeable chunk of his transfer budget is having to be spent on a good, but not brilliant right back purely because he is English.

Managers need to have both more patience and more faith in the young players coming through their academies. As budgets are tightened, it’s not going to be possible for clubs to continue to buy their whole squad. The smaller members of the premier league will have to look increasingly to their academy sides for first team squad members, but the bigger clubs should also be casting their net closer to home.

The recent exploits of the England under-21 team prove that our players are as talented as their counterparts in Spain, Germany and Italy. If clubs are to continue to be competitive amongst the backdrop of a recession and clubs being bank-rolled by billionaire owners, maybe it’s time for them to make their real investments in their own youth academies.

It's all foreign to me

It’s little over three weeks since Frank Lampard’s 20 yarder sealed the FA Cup for Chelsea and marked the end of another football season in England.

But with the fixtures announced and the players beginning to filter back from their holidays to Marbella, attention has already turned to next season. Inevitably, much of the talk amongst fans centres on what new signings their club will bring in.

And whilst there are no guarantees clubs will be able to hold on to their star performers one thing is for sure: you won’t need two hands to count the number of British players leaving these shores this summer. For British players continue to maintain an aversion to plying their trade abroad – something not shared by their Spanish, Portuguese and French counterparts.

Footballers often cite the short length of their career as justification for their huge wages. “We’re not in the game long, so we might as well make the most of it” they proclaim. Yet this mantra is rarely followed when it comes to seeking pastures new (and that’s really new Gareth Barry, not Manchester).

Sure, plenty of British footballers have found employment at foreign clubs over the years – the likes of Lineker, Platt and Hoddle were undoubted successes. But exports from the UK have been few and far between over the last 10 years, and even those that did take the plunge have experienced only mixed fortunes.

True, the wages in the Premier League probably outstrip those in many other European countries so it’s reasonable for players to argue they would be losing out by going abroad. But one must also assume that the players at the likes of Milan, Barcelona and Bayern Munich are not closing the curtains and hiding behind the sofa when the window cleaner comes to collect his wages.

It seems our players lack the willingness to try something different – a sense of adventure. Perhaps this is an indictment of our national teams’ lack of success at major competitions? Perhaps our play lacks the bit of flair or tactical know-how that could be procured by a season or two in the sun?

For all our sniggers about David Beckham, he has at least experienced football in four different countries. Although it could also be argued he hasn’t exactly immersed himself in foreign culture, even he will have expanded his horizons a little by leaving Manchester and sampling the different atmospheres, coaching methods and mentalities of Madrid, Milan and LA.

Some may argue that our players simply do not have the opportunity to go abroad – they are just not wanted. But with agents regularly engineering English moves for French, Spanish and South American players, it’s difficult to believe it couldn’t work the other way around.

Steven Gerrard, Wayne Rooney, Rio Ferdinand and Frank Lampard are the jewels in the English crown and would walk into most European sides. But even our lesser talented players could hold their own at big clubs across the continent – just look at the recent success of trend-bucker Matt Derbyshire at Olympiakos for evidence.

Ian Rush shipping baked beans to Turin and declaring Italy as being “like a foreign country” whilst at Juventus and Garry O’Connor’s reluctance to learn a word of Russian during his time at Lokomotiv Moscow probably didn’t enhance the image of British players abroad, but maybe it’s time for someone to break the mould.

With the weak pound and new 50% tax rate for high earners, more players may well be tempted to leave the UK this summer. It would certainly make for interesting viewing, and could possibly lead to the list of successful recent exports being longer than David Beckham, Steve McManaman and er...Vinny Sammways.

Television: Football's addiction to the small screen

What do Michael Thomas against Liverpool in 1989, David Platt against Belgium in 1990 and David Beckham against Greece in 2001 have in common? They were all architects of last minute rescue acts, and you can now add Len Blavatnik to that list.

Blavatnik is the Russian-born billionaire who has seemingly saved Setanta Sports from going to the wall. His purchase of 51% of the Irish broadcaster has all but ensured they will continue to screen 46 matches next year, but most importantly, means the Premier League’s smaller members do not have to face some nervous meetings with their bank managers this summer.

Television has made football rich and in Sky’s case at least, football has made television rich in return. Broadcasting rights for the Premier League are sold to companies both at home and abroad for astronomical sums – helping to fund the ever increasing wages of English football’s biggest stars.

Yet Setanta’s near collapse would have had many a Premier League chairman loosening their tie with anxiety. The fact is, many clubs rely heavily on the income generated by the sale of broadcasting rights. Smaller clubs such as Bolton and Blackburn – where season ticket and merchandise sales are pitiful compared to those enjoyed at Manchester United and Arsenal, need the regular instalments of the TV money to make sure they are at least competitive and retain their Premier League status.

It is because of this that football’s obsession with television is beginning to look increasingly irresponsible. It’s said that Setanta requires 1.9m subscribers just to break even. That’s essentially asking 1.9m households to pay £12 per month on top of the money they already pay for Sky Sports, for lower quality games at inconvenient times. The only surprise is that Setanta were only 700,000 subscribers short of their target, not that they failed to meet it at all.

But surely the Premier League should be trusted to look at proposals such as this and clearly see that they are not viable business plans (sorry to sound all Dragons Den)? By selling themselves to the highest bidder – no matter what the reputation, ability to deliver on their promises or plans of that bidder are, the Premier League is in reality selling English football rather cheaply.

Television has a stranglehold on football, and it won’t let go. Both the league and the clubs themselves simply can’t live without it. The likes of Sky pay for the right not just to screen games, but to dictate when games take place, and what time they kick off. It means we now play games at lunchtime on a Saturday, with little consideration for the geographical location of the teams involved. It means we have football at tea time on a Saturday – often played in front of less than full houses and even smaller audiences at home.

Television is also a key cause of the growing financial divide between the Premier League and the Football League. Dropping out of the Premier League can cause a shortfall in television revenue of around £25m per year. Is it responsible to have two such contrasting television deals – so obviously making the rich richer, and the poor poorer? Yes there is more demand for Premier League football, but more efforts need to be made to make sure the riches of the Premier League filter down to the lower rungs of the English football ladder.

We all know that football has become more of a business in recent years, but it is said that there is no room for emotion in business. It’s hard to imagine football without emotion, and when you look at the extremely small number of people who genuinely make money from football as a result of investment – maybe it’s time football stopped trying so hard to be a business and concentrated a little more on being a sport.

If not here, then where?

With England uncharacteristically cruising through their qualifying group, a place at South Africa's World Cup in 2010 looks assured.

But as Fabio Capello and his backroom staff begin to think about travel arrangements and an African location suitable for both players and WAGs, officials at the FA will be busy developing England's bid to host either the 2018 or 2022 world cup.

Last month, England officially declared their intention to host the prestigious tournament for the first time since....oh come on, do you really need me to fill in this blank?!

With shiny new stadia in place and the hooligan problem drastically reduced if not solved, England will feel there is a more than decent chance that football will be "coming home". But as 2006's disasterous bid proved, relying on England's football heritage will not be enough. There are plenty of other worthy bids, and England will have a real fight on their hands if they are to emerge victorious.

FIFA will decide which two bids will win the right to host the 2018 and 2022 world cups in December 2010. So, who exactly are England up against and if the world cup is not coming here, then where will it go?

Australia
With the 2014 world cup taking place in Brazil, it's unlikely that it will go to another southern hemisphere country in 2018. Sepp Blatter has even gone on record to state that the Aussies would be best off concentrating on a 2022 bid.

Relatively new ground for football, but the popularity of the sport is growing rapidly with the relaunched A-League and the national side is regularly troubling some of the world's top sides.

They have recent experience of hosting a major sporting event from the Sydney Olympics, and their sport-mad population will ensure bumper crowds. A current lack of dedicated football stadia and the expense of away fans getting to the tournament are the only things that may hold them back.

Indonesia
With no real football heritage to speak of, Indonesia present something of an unknown quantity to FIFA. Questions remain over the country's infrastructure, and they have not previously been tested in hosting major tournaments such as the world cup.

It would appear the Indonesian bid is too much of a risk at this time.

Japan
An increasingly football-obsessed nation with the facilities, infrastructure and experience from co-hosting the 2002 world cup.

But there also lies their problem. It was only 2002 and surely this bid comes too soon after their last hosting?

Absolutely no doubts over whether they could put on a show though.

Qatar
Only bidding for the 2022 competition and they'll appreciate the extended time to prepare if successful.

They have money to burn when it comes to developing stadia, but cripplingly hot conditions and a lack of interest from the home public are not conducive to memorable world cups. FIFA may be interested in using it as an opportunity to bring football to a different part of the world, but they have to be considered an outsider at this stage.

Mexico
Famously hosted in 1970 and 1986. Featuring Pele and Maradona respectively, both tournaments were memorable and there's no doubt the home fans know their football.

They would be the first nation to host the tournament three times, which may play against them when you consider the number of relatively new bids coming in for these tournaments. The recent hysteria over swine flu was not helpful, but a decent stadia redevelopment programme may swing it for them.

Portugal/Spain joint bid
Two football-mad countries with national teams boasting some of the world's greatest players.

With the Nou Camp, Bernabeu and Vicente Calderon stadiums, it's not entirely clear why Spain need Portugal's help with this but in truth it only strengthens their bid.

Easy access, great stadia and rich footballing heritage means this is a very strong bid that may get the green light should the world cup come to Europe. England beware.

Russia
With one of the fastest growing leagues in the world, Russia is becoming a major player in the football world.

Backed by a seemingly endless supply of oil-rich billionaires, money will not be a problem. Unless of course FIFA decide to take the widespread rumors of match fixing in the Russian premier league seriously that is.

They've never hosted before though, and if they can present a clear plan of how fans and teams can get around the world's largest country much more cheaply than they currently can, they may be in luck. England will be hoping that money doesn't talk in this instance.

South Korea
Having been bitten by the football bug when jointly-hosting in 2002, South Korea are hoping to go it alone in 2022.

Already have the facilities in place but like Japan, will struggle to convince people it's their turn again so soon after their last hosting.

USA
Although still behind the NFL, NBA, baseball, NHL and probably Scatch, Soccerball is now an established sport in the US. That's more than can be said for when they first hosted in 1994.

Maybe held back by a lack of large, football-dedicated stadia, but the US know how to host a major sporting event like no-one else and could be rewarded for the progress they've made since '94.

Up against some strong competition though, and are most likely to be politely asked to wait their turn.

Belgium/Holland
Neither country has hosted a world cup before, but unlike Portugal and Spain it makes perfect sense for both countries to join forces for this bid.

Organised a superb Euro 2000 tournament and the rail, sea and air links will appeal to England fans at least. No doubt they could put on a good show, but may lack the wow factor needed to be successful.

Likely to be behind the English, Portugal/Spain and Russian European bids.

Predictions

2018 hosts - Portugal/Spain
2022 hosts - Australia

Agree or disagree?

It's mental here

And so another season draws to a close, and now the panic sets in.

Football fans across Europe are bracing themselves for nigh on three months apart from their beloved football clubs. The hopes and dreams of last August have either been realised or quashed - now considered as well placed confidence, or ludicrous optimism.

The season is well and truly over, and once again there is an air of predictability about the upper echelons of league tables across the continent.

In England Manchester United secured their third successive title, whilst Italy's Inter went one better and recorded their fourth on the spin. At the same time in Spain, Pep Guardiola's Barcelona were busy wrapping up their 20th league title. So no surprises at the end of term awards assembly then.

But here in England, the predictability of the Premier League is making its presence known further down the table than the very top. Further in fact than the top four, with two consecutive seasons ending with the exact same six teams placed at the top of the table.

Concern is growing, especially amongst fans and representatives of clubs outside of the country's now customary top four of Arsenal, Chelsea, Liverpool and Manchester United. By routinely securing the four champions league places on offer to English clubs, the four footballing horseman of the Apocalypse hold a monopoly on the financial rewards given to those competing in the world's biggest club competition.

The money received each year they qualify gives them the necessary power to purchase the players (and pay the wages) to ensure qualification for the next season. Or to put it simply, the rich keep on getting richer and the rest of the premier league falls behind and out of sight.

So how can Tottenham, Everton and Aston Villa break the stranglehold the big four have on champions league qualification? Well, they could follow the Manchester City route of finding themselves a very rich Arab man who likes to use football clubs as something of a plaything. But although admittedly early days, City's indifferent form last year suggest it takes more than a huge injection of cash and similarly large dose of new blood to secure success.

Maybe it's a change of attitude that's needed? How many teams actually go to one of the big four clubs looking, not hoping, for a win? Most will travel to these grounds praying for a corner, let alone a solitary point. The current vogue for playing one forward supported (or completely isolated by in most cases) by attacking midfielders has done little to help teams ambition away from home.

Maybe the threat of relegation in today's debt-laden premier league is too much of a burden for teams to consider risking defeat for the possibility of a famous victory. Maybe I'm being overly romantic, but as football fans surely we'd prefer to see our teams attack the best our country has to offer and suffer the consequences than put 10 men behind the ball and grind out a dull 1-0 defeat?

It seems to me that not enough managers are willing to take the kind of risks Messrs Ferguson and Wenger do away from home. It's somehow become acceptable for 16 teams to accept defeat against an elite of four clubs. Maybe all this talk of the Haves and the Have nots is a red herring? Maybe all it needs is a little more PMA? Maybe it's all in the head?

Whatever it is, something needs to change quickly before the English Premier League becomes as predictable as our friends' North of the border.