Fans should chill out about postponements

With the country gripped in the midst of what has come to be officially known as “the big freeze”, football has taken a back seat and us English folk have been given the opportunity to enjoy two of our other favourite pastimes: moaning about the weather, and moaning about travelling. 

And what fine voice we have been in too. Our airports have pulled the shutters down and quashed the dreams of those wishing to spend Christmas Day in the sun; many of our roads remain no-go zones for vehicles other than snow ploughs; and our trains have lived up to expectations and ground to a halt either just before, or just beyond the platform we are waiting at. 

But whilst few of us are surprised that the weather has caused travel chaos aplenty, many seem less willing to accept that the majority of Premier and Football League games were unable to be played this weekend. One newspaper reporter on Sunday recalled how in years gone by, fans would arrive at the ground early to clear away the snow and paint blue pitch markings. The games would go ahead with minimal fuss, and that was even before undersoil heating was a fixture at English grounds.

Many have argued that football clubs, together with the police and local authorities, were over-cautious and too eager to trot out the health and safety line before cancelling their fixtures this weekend. There may of course be some truth in that, but whatever their reasoning, the football clubs that did postpone their matches this weekend made the right move. 

I say this not as a fully paid up member of the fun police, but as someone who would delight in listing a thousand things he would rather be doing than sitting outside for two hours, watching football whilst the temperature fails to get above freezing. 

I take nothing away from the fans that did make it to matches this weekend - especially those West Ham supporters who made it to Blackburn - in fact I applaud their dedication. I just don’t personally consider watching football in freezing conditions a pleasurable experience, and admit that I would probably have made my excuses and stayed in the comfort of my own flat had West Ham been playing at home this weekend. That may be sacrilege to some, but I'm not about to justify my love for the club by sacrificing my nose to frostbite.

Clubs also have a responsibility to visiting fans who may be caught up in traffic or rails delays as a result of the snow. Manchester United were due in London this weekend to play Chelsea at Stamford Bridge, and had that game have been called off following a lunchtime pitch inspection rather than on Saturday, thousands of United fans would have been marooned in London and facing treacherous journeys back to Surrey, sorry, Manchester.

It’s not often I say this about professional football clubs in England, but in the main I feel common sense prevailed this weekend. The travel situation was appalling, and temperatures far from conducive to a pleasant viewing experience. 

Fans in Germany, where a full Bundesliga programme was played, may well disagree and believe football clubs in England should prepare better for such conditions. It’s also true that many other countries are also set up to cope with freezing temperatures and widespread snow much better than ourselves. 

For example, I recall once sitting in a rural Norwegian airport watching a blizzard in full flow wondering if we were ever going to get home. A small army of staff then took to the runway area to clear a path for take-off, before dousing our plane with what I can only assume was some kind of liquidised grit. Ten minutes later we were ready to depart and that was typical of our weekend; when public services ran without delay despite constantly arctic weather. That said, I also recall paying £8 for a pint and £12 for Burger King on that same trip, so it’s not all plain sailing for the Norwegians.

But countries such as Germany and Norway have the infrastructure in place to cope with the kind of weather we are currently having because they have this weather every year. Sub-zero temperatures are expected throughout their winters, whilst here they remain the exception. For those countries, not investing in public services to deal with the weather is not an option: the country would be in chaos for months on end. 

Here, it’s unlikely that snow will still be on our streets come the end of February like it will be there. If it is and our football programme manages to soldier on, you’ll find me hanging out with Jeff Stelling and the cast of Soccer Saturday, safe in the warmth of my local public house.

The real reason why football is not coming home

Nearly a week after FIFA’s controversial decision to award Russia hosting rights for the 2018 World Cup, the debate - in England at least - rages on.  How could football’s governing body ignore the technically superior English bid, and opt instead for the far riskier Russian option?

For many the answer has corruption at its heart: Russia was willing to play the political game, and used its financial might to grease the palms of FIFA delegates to get their way. England was not; choosing instead to naively concentrate on developing a bid that ticked all the commercial, technical and logistical boxes. A classic case of evil using underhand tactics to overcome good. 

The bid team, FA and the English media have peddled this theory ever since Sepp Blatter opened that envelope last Thursday and disappointed the nation’s football followers. As fans, many of us have bought it and remain outraged at the injustice of the system. But it’s time we all woke up and realised we are missing the point. 

England presented FIFA a low risk option that offered ready-made stadiums certain to be full for every game, involved minimal infrastructure development and would easily attract corporate investment because of its existing commercial power. A perfect bid then? Well not exactly; for England’s strengths turned out to be its weaknesses: England may want the World Cup, but it doesn’t need it.

Let’s ask ourselves this: how would having the World Cup in England change our football? I can’t see how it would bring any significant change at all, and therein lies the reason behind FIFA’s decision. 

Our stadia are already amongst the very best in the world, and attract huge attendances on a weekly basis. Despite our frustrations with the roads and rail links during the snow, our travel infrastructure compares favourably with other nations. London, Manchester, Birmingham and many of the other cities that were to host games if England was successful have proven track records at hosting international events and coping with tourism. The money generated by the Premier League is held up as an example to others of how commercial partners can successfully be engaged in the sport. In short, England hosting the World Cup would leave no discernable legacy; and we all know how much FIFA likes a legacy.

This is not to say that I agree with the decision, because I certainly don’t. I believe that either England or the Iberian bid would have provided a festival of football played out in front of fanatical fans. The passion of the supporters of  the countries involved in both bids would have created an incredible atmosphere, and given the experience of those countries in hosting big international and club level games, the tournament would most likely have been organised smoothly and without incident.

But the decision has been made, and we need to accept that FIFA believes its focus should be on extending the game beyond the traditional powers of international football. This is its priority, and there is a good argument to suggest that whilst England may feel it has been treated unjustly, there is little fair about the World Cup only being alternated between Argentina, Brazil, England, France, Germany, Italy and Spain. We might say it’s our turn after 44 years of waiting, but how long is Russia expected to wait for the World Cup? 

As a nation, the reaction to the decision has been misguided at best, and arrogant at worst. At times, there has been an imperialism about the way we have conducted ourselves in the days since the decision; a school of thought that we brought the game to these buggers, so we’ll bloody well tell them how we want the world game to be run. Boris Johnson’s decision to withdraw VIP invites to FIFA delegates for the 2012 Olympics is quite frankly embarrassing, and will win us even less friends than BBC’s Panorama expose. No, it’s time we got over ourselves. 

We have much to be thankful for as football fans in England. We see some of the world’s top stars week-in-week-out, and get to watch our football in mostly fantastic facilities. We have extensive television coverage, and despite what some might say, still have fair play at the heart of our game. Football will go on whether England hosts the World Cup again or not, and we should be concentrating on building a team that regularly challenges to win the tournament, rather than simply hosting it.

The revolution will not be televised

Please note: this post was originally written last week but technical problems prevented it going live before now.


As I stood at the bar of my local last week, idly sipping a pint whilst watching a rejuvenated Fernando Torres tug violently at Chelsea’s cloak of invincibility, I was struck by one inescapable thought: 3D football is a bit rubbish isn‘t it?

In fact, 3D football is not just rubbish, it’s utterly pointless. During the Liverpool vs. Chelsea game, I watched countless punters hand over their money for their 3D glasses, only to almost instantly turn to their friends and bemoan the lack of any major difference to the picture from the standard coverage being shown on the pub‘s other screens. The general consensus was that the only element of the footage that was aided by the 3D technology was the on-screen graphics; hardly the viewing revolution we were promised when Sky first launched 3D football last season.

Having tried it a couple of times now, I struggle to see any benefit to watching a game in 3D. The significantly fewer camera angles take the viewer back to the limited football coverage of the 1980s, whilst the free form graphics will impress no-one who has ever been to any theme park in the world, or ever bought a 3D special edition box of Frosties (come on, that‘s most of us surely?). Its impact on the fans’ viewing experience is minimal at best, and I am yet to meet anyone who believes this is a technological advancement that either the game, or coverage of the game, actually needs.

More to the point, watching football in the pub in November whilst wearing a pair of dark shades is ridiculous. You look like an idiot. Or worse, Bono. During my recent visit to my local, a group of fans wearing said shades were even given a rendition of “Only the lonely” by an elderly gentlemen who was trying to point out their resemblance to Roy Orbison. However, it’s worth noting that this same elderly gentlemen kept asking everyone where “Fernando Alfonso” had finished in the grand prix, so I’m not sure he can be considered the sharpest of the knives in the draw.

In any case, I think the 3D football revolution is a while off yet. In its second season now, the majority of games are still screened in 2D only, and pubs showing the games that are broadcast in 3D, are rarely a-wash with fans doing their finest impressions of Irish rock stars with delusions of grandeur. For the armchair supporter, the revolution is farther away still, with 3D television sets still prohibitively expensive and therefore inaccessible to the majority of fans.

I’m not sure what can be done to improve the quality of the 3D package. To be honest, I think it’s one of those inventions that people soon come to realise isn’t needed; like the mini-disc player or Sky’s “player-cam” feature (why watch a normal game of football, when you can watch just one player at a time, doing not very much at all?).  Whilst I acknowledge that some of life’s most important and now essential technological advancements were borne out of radical innovation rather than in direct response to public need, it just seems that football fans were not clamouring for 3D football, and now that it’s here, they seem even less enamoured by it. 

But technology, albeit in more general terms, is an issue in football that won’t go away and is a source of disagreement between the game‘s two most senior administrators. FIFA supreme Sepp Blatter seems to be warming to the idea after many years of opposition, whilst UEFA president Michel Platini is dead set against it - recently commenting that introducing video technology and the like will be akin to playing football on the Playstation. But so long as incidents like Frank Lampard’s “goal” in England’s World Cup tie against Germany this year - and even Lee Cattermole’s blatant goaline handball last weekend - continue to occur; the argument will rumble on.

One group of people aside from angry managers who will be pleased if video technology is introduced though, is the television corporations who broadcast football. Just imagine the power they could broker if football associations across the world relied on TV footage to decide controversial incidents? What value their TV packages then? How could any organisation argue the fans’ case for conventional kick off times against the TV broadcasters whose footage the games’ outcome potentially depends on?

If there are few people who are convinced by 3D football, I’d wager there would be even fewer who support the idea of television having even more influence on the game.
  

A kit of alright

Unrequited love can be a terrible thing. It can suck the life out of any man or woman, and turn us all in to irrational wrecks. There is nothing to be gained from pining for a love that will never be returned, but pining I am; for a genuine 1985/86 West Ham home shirt.

I realise any sympathy you might have had for me immediately vanished the moment I revealed the object of my affections to be a 25 year-old football shirt rather than my childhood sweetheart, but I assure you that this love is real and is not to be sniffed at. Having this shirt would complete me: it would make me insanely happy and in my opinion, a better person all round. Alas, it remains one of the few West Ham shirts missing from my collection.

As football shirts go, the 85/86 Adidas number that the Hammers wore is not exactly revolutionary. Yes it was a West Ham shirt without light blue sleeves, but it still bore the three sleeve-based stripes that have adorned almost all Adidas garments since the company was formed, and featured thin horizontal stripes like many other examples of the brand’s shirts at the time. In terms of fit, it had that classic 80s spray-on tight look that was perfected when teamed with shorts that were only a matter of centimetres longer than a pair of briefs.

Despite this, I still consider it a thing of beauty. Perhaps it’s because of the romance that images of the shirt conjure up: West Ham recording their highest ever top flight finish (third); a fresh faced Tony Cottee plundering goals at home and away; Mark Ward terrifying full-backs throughout the country; and Frank McAvennie scoring on an off the pitch despite the dual hindrance of a blonde perm and buck teeth. It was also the first football shirt I owned, and the beginning of a lifelong obsession.

Over the years, I (and indeed my parents) have spent more money than I care to divulge on feeding my football shirt habit. In the early days, I was non-discriminate; wearing the shirt of any club in the country so long as I liked the look of it: Sheffield United; Ipswich; Portsmouth; Aston Villa; even Chelsea for God’s sake - I wore them all and cared not if this appeared as some sort of betrayal to West Ham.

I even spent a whole day in London’s Soccerscene trying desperately to decide which kit to spend my birthday money on. I tried on pretty much all of the shop’s entire stock, and my parents and I had to break for lunch before returning and taking home an Umbro Manchester City shirt. Inside, I‘m pretty sure my West Ham-devoted father was raging.

Although these days I have the obsession under a degree of control and limit my football shirt purchases to West Ham, foreign clubs and international teams, I still have my head turned by the shirts of other teams now and again. But for me, the 80s remains the golden era of football shirt design. It was a time when the fans were fighting on the terraces and some of the football was just as ugly; but sportswear brands were just beginning to see the potential benefits of mass-produced football shirts, and many of the kits were true works of art.

Adidas were of course big players in the 80s kit movement with their West Ham, Ipswich and Manchester United shirts their finest examples; but others such as Le Coq Sportif were also architects of some beautiful creations. Take Everton’s 1983 kit as an example, which the French firm used brilliantly as inspiration for the Toffees kit last season. In their homeland, the brand reached even dizzier heights, with some sterling work on Paris St Germain’s shirts, whilst even I must admit that the Spurs shirts worn by Hoddle and company in the early 80s were pretty special too. Their designs are amongst the most iconic of the era, and the company were engaged in a keenly fought battle for supremacy with Adidas throughout the decade, whilst Nike continued to ignore the football market until the early 1990s.

Today of course, football shirts are big business. Premier League clubs now change their shirts every season as a matter of course, whilst many continue to launch “third” shirts when a distinctive away shirt will do the trick. England’s latest home shirt was designed by Peter Saville of Factory Records fame, and the use of squad numbers has given fans a way of expressing their support for a club’s cult heroes.

Whether you are a football shirt obsessive like me or find this fascination all a bit disturbing; every football fan will have a particular design they remember most fondly. It may be a shirt admired for its appearance, or simply for what it represents. And with my beloved 85/86 shirt, it’s definitely a case of both. Retro sportswear firms have tried to replicate the shirt, but although a good effort, it lacks branding and therefore authenticity. It continues to attempt to seduce me from the retro rack in Soccerscene though, but I am a man of principle and have promised myself never to be tempted by this polyester harlot.

Anyone with even a passing interest in football shirts should check out the following websites:

www.classicfootballshirts.co.uk  
www.footballshirtculture.com  
www.subsidesports.com 

ZZ still top of the pile

I may be a couple of days late, but I’d like to say a big happy birthday to one Edson Arantes do Nascimento - or Pele as most of us know him.


The great man celebrated his 70th birthday at the weekend, and presumably friends and family of the Brazilian superstar were forced to sit with him through footage of all 1,124 of his career goals.


Thought by many to be the world’s greatest ever player, Pele also remains the game’s most iconic figure; 52 years after he lit up the 1958 World Cup in Sweden as a precocious 17 year-old. His name is synonymous with football: he transcends generations; inspiring some of the game’s emerging stars even now - despite retiring well before they were born. Heck, even Americans have known who he is for over 30 years now.


Yet although there can be little doubt that both his name and face is the most well known in the football world, can he still be considered the game’s greatest ever player? In short, my opinion is no.


I’ll tell you for why: there is often much discussion about which players would form a world XI, and who would take the crown as the best player of all time. Often enough - and professional footballers are guilty of this even - people fill their hall of fame with stars they have never even seen play live; who retired before they can remember watching football; and who they only know from a few hazy clips on their Dad’s old VHS cassettes.


To really judge a footballer, you have to have seen them play on numerous occasions and facing various situations: leading their team to an emphatic victory against well-fancied opponents; inspiring their team-mates to a heroic win against the odds; dazzling fans with breathtaking skill in a do or die cup final. Simply viewing a montage of goals on Youtube does not mean you can compare a player from yesteryear to one from today.


For most of us, the greatest player of all time is in actual fact, the greatest player of our generation. At 28, I’m too young to have seen the likes of Cruyff, Platini and even Maradona in their pomp. Even Pele himself is someone I mainly know from either erectile dysfunction treatment advertisements, or as the crazy old fool who makes wild predictions about some also-ran winning the World Cup every four years.


No, I can only really judge players I have seen extensively in the years I have followed football, and for that reason I believe the world’s greatest player to be Zinedine Zidane. A Champions League and league title winner at club level, he translated his domestic success to the international stage to win both the World Cup and European Championships with France. He played at the highest level, and won all there was to win - even taking the 2006 World Cup player of the tournament accolade despite headbutting Marco Matterazzi in the final.


I had the pleasure of watching him in the flesh twice: first for France at Wembley in 1999, and second for Real Madrid at the Bernabeu in 2003. That night at Wembley over 10 years ago now, I was completely mesmerised. Less than a year after he had inspired Les Bleus to their first ever World Cup triumph, he effortlessly destroyed England with his passing, movement and quick thinking. He was a step, sometimes two, ahead of England that night and it was the only time I have ever enjoyed seeing my country get completely torn apart. We lost 2-0, but many of us in the crowd that night went home knowing we had witnessed a truly remarkable performance.


The second time I saw Zizou in action was on a trip to Madrid to watch Los Galacticos crush a very capable Athletic Bilbao side 3-0. Beckham; Carlos; Casillas; Figo; Raul; Ronaldo; all the headline acts were on stage, but it was the prematurely balding number five that stole the show once again. Whenever and wherever he got the ball, he somehow managed to create 10 yards of space; allowing himself to play any pass he liked, or as he chose to do at one point, run half the length of the field before crossing to Ronaldo. Once again he dictated play throughout, and none of the star names on the Real Madrid team sheet that night performed anywhere near as impressively as Zidane.


It’s hard to remember him giving the ball away in either of those two matches, and it’s even more difficult to think of a player currently playing who comes close to the level of genius that Zidane reached so regularly. Cristiano Ronaldo and Lionel Messi are wonderfully exciting players to watch, whilst Wesley Sneijder has an exquisite range of passing. But for me, there is still some distance for them to travel before they can be spoken of in the same breath as the greatest of them all: Zinedine Zidane.


What do you think? Is Zidane the greatest player of all time?

Where next for the Wayne Rooney roadshow?

And so now we have confirmation; Wayne Rooney officially wants to leave Manchester United.

After days of speculation, Sir Alex Ferguson today announced to the football world that Rooney had admitted he would not be signing another contract at United, and had expressed his desire to leave the club. It’s an amazing twist to a story that’s far from its conclusion. For the question now on everyone’s lips is: just where will Rooney go?

Not many players leave United at the peak of their powers, so exits out of Old Trafford are usually the beginning of a downward spiral into mediocrity - often via Newcastle. Those leaving the club when still thought to be at the top of their game usually do so with a verbal volley from Ferguson still ringing in their ears, and the tip of his boot recently planted on their backside: Sir Alex decides when it’s time for a player to move, and no-one else.

But Ronaldo’s relentless pursuit of a move to Real Madrid has perhaps changed all that. He became the first player to depart from Old Trafford on his terms, and whilst still considered one of the best players on the planet. To replace him, United signed Antonio Valencia; who despite looking increasingly at home on the right side of United’s midfield before his injury, does not possess the outrageous match-winning talent of Ronaldo.

Some reports suggest that United’s relative inactivity in the transfer market - particularly their reluctance to replace Ronaldo with a marquee player of the likes of Mesut Ozil or David Villa - is perceived by Rooney as a lack of ambition on the club’s part, and is a major factor in his decision to want out of Old Trafford. Yet a club that starts every season with a genuine aim of winning its own domestic league, the Champions League and anything else in between can hardly be described as unambitious.

Until we hear directly from the man himself, we won’t know the reasons behind Rooney’s eagerness to leave the country’s biggest club. Some will say that at least it explains his woeful form over a period that now dates back to the end of last season, through the World Cup and now to the start of the new Premier League season.

Hopefully this explanation will help to prevent the now weekly inquest carried out by the press as to why Rooney hasn’t performed to the standard we all expect of him. Everybody, and everything else in the world seems to be responsible for Wayne Rooney’s God-awful form other than Wayne Rooney.

Take this weekend for example; where Sir Alex Ferguson was heavily criticised for only playing him in the last 20 minutes of their 2-2 draw with West Bromwich Albion. How could United hope to win the league with their star striker so regularly warming the bench? How could Rooney find his touch again without a run of consecutive games? These were the kind of questions being asked by the press on Sunday morning, yet Ferguson’s responsibility lies solely at delivering the best possible results for Manchester United. With the way Rooney has been playing recently, he was lucky to be on the bench in the first place on Saturday, let alone get off it for more than 20 minutes.

Yet it wasn’t too long ago that we were hailing Rooney has the saviour of English football; the man who plundered goals at home and abroad throughout last season, and would lead England to certain World Cup glory in South Africa; a rare English star talented enough to rival our continental cousins not only for pace and passion, but skill and technique too. He remains a fantastically talented footballer, who can win games almost on his own. And it’s because of this, that there will be no shortage of clubs queuing up to secure his signature at the next transfer window.

Barcelona and Real Madrid will naturally lead the way from abroad, whilst Chelsea and Manchester City will be the front-runners at home. In truth, only those four clubs in the whole of Europe could afford to buy Rooney, and even two of those - Barcelona and Chelsea - have been forced to be far more watchful of their expenditure than they have been in recent years, and may not stretch to either United’s asking price, or Rooney’s wage demands.

A move to Real Madrid would mean a reunion with his old sparring partner Ronaldo, whilst also offering him the chance to work with Jose Mourinho. That said, Real already have Ronaldo, Higuain, Benzema, Kaka and Ozil to play in advanced positions, and it remains to be seen whether they would pay the reported £50m fee for someone to provide competition to that impressive forward line. That said, logic is something that’s rarely been applied to Real’s spending in the past. Whether Rooney would be willing to adapt to life in the Spanish capital is perhaps a more pressing question to consider. You get the impression he would struggle to adapt to life outside of the North West of England, so a move to another country may not actually be to his liking.

So does that leave Manchester City as his most likely destination? It seems almost unthinkable for Wayne Rooney to be a Manchester City player within the next 12 months. But with almost unlimited funds to spend and offering Rooney an option that would see him depart United but not the North West, is it completely out of the question that Rooney would follow the cash and head to Eastlands? Only time will tell, but wherever Wayne Rooney ends up, it’s likely to be considered the most talked about transfer in English football for a generation.

Reds walk alone to date with destiny

Liverpool FC - one of English football’s most historic clubs - will contest possibly its most important fixture in its entire history tomorrow.

But there will be no Steven Gerrard to drive them on; no Fernando Torres to spearhead their attack; and no Pepe Reina to keep them safe from opposition advances. For tomorrow’s big clash will not be taking place on the hallowed turf of Anfield, but will instead be played in the High Court in London.

The reason for this date with destiny is now well known: Liverpool will be attempting to push through the sale of the club to John W Henry’s New England Sports Ventures (NESV) consortium. Posing as opposition on the day will be the club’s incumbent owners, George Gillett and Tom Hicks; who will be attempting to block the deal in order to avoid making a huge loss on their original investment.

A victory in court will see the medium term future of the club secured, and give the fans cause for optimism that the elusive Premier League title they so badly covet may once again be a realistic target some day soon. Defeat is likely to see the Royal Bank of Scotland place the club into administration, and the Premier League to impose its mandatory nine point deduction for any club calling in the administrators. In other words: a disaster.

That a club as successful as Liverpool can be faced with such a desperate situation is preposterous. Despite not being crowned English champions since 1990, recent seasons have still seen the club deliver regular Champions League football, attract sell-out crowds of 40,000 plus and build a world-wide fan base ready to snap up as much merchandise as you can manufacture. And yet still the club faces the very real prospect of being placed into administration, and finding itself entangled in a season-long fight against relegation. Should they lose that particular battle, the consequences are unthinkable.

But let’s not get carried away just yet: Liverpool can still emerge from court tomorrow victorious, and should that be the case, it’s likely that the future will be looking bright for the reds. It’s said that NSEV will provide the necessary finance to restructure the debt to a more manageable level, whilst also offering Roy Hodgson the funds he so desperately needs to rebuild the club’s mediocre squad. Huge improvements to Anfield are also rumoured to be in the pipeline, although so far these are only based on the fact that Henry’s other sports team, the Boston Red Sox, had their stadium redeveloped whilst Henry was at the helm: hardly any kind of assurance.

By Tuesday afternoon, we should know whether the Kop will have its collective head in its hands, or jubilantly cheering the end of the disastrous Hicks/Gillett ownership. Whatever the result, the rest of the Premier League, and indeed world football, should be taking note. If a club the size of Liverpool can be taken to the brink of meltdown by financial incompetence, so too can any other major club in the game. And yet Liverpool’s predicament is not the only warning the game’s top clubs have been served with.

Liverpool’s deadly rivals, Manchester United, are also hampered by crippling debts - brought on by their owners borrowing money to purchase the club. The mighty Barcelona were forced to take out a £130m loan in July to pay their players wages, whilst Chelsea’s financial figures continue to prove that seven years on from his arrival, they still only exist at the upper reaches of the European game because of Roman Abramovich’s millions.

UEFA’s financial fair play rules - which state that all clubs competing in European competition must not spend more than they earn - will come into force for the start of the 2013/2014 season. Clubs across the continent will be busy getting their houses in order as that date looms ever closer, and one can only hope that this particular regulation forces a step change in the financial management of the game.

Boy does it need it: too many clubs have lived too far beyond their means, for too long. Despite the increased commercialisation of the past 10 years, football clubs surely still have a responsibility to their fans that goes beyond selling them a seat to view the game from and an over-priced hot dog? A responsibility that goes beyond the need to extend the club’s market reach and increase profits.

Running a football club in a business-like manner - as modern football supposedly demands - shouldn’t distract owners from their responsibility to run their club in an efficient way that gives the players on the pitch the best chance of success, and the club’s real supporters a fair opportunity to witness it from the stand. The way many of our clubs are being managed at the moment, it seems that Hicks and Gillett are far from alone in forgetting that responsibility.

Although I’m far from a Liverpool fan, I very much hope they are successful in their tricky away fixture tomorrow, and that the future of the club is secured. Whilst a club like Liverpool moving in to administration may be the wake up call that perhaps many of Europe’s clubs still need, their fans deserve better and losing Liverpool to the banks and potentially the Championship, is surely far too big a price to pay.

Failure in fantasy land

September has not been a very productive month: not for this blog, not for my beloved West Ham and certainly not for my fantasy football team.

It’s the latter that’s causing me most concern at the moment. Despite spending much of a very quiet summer’s day at work poring over statistics in order to choose my squad, I find myself struggling in the bottom three of our 18 team-strong office mini-league; just above somebody’s 10-year old son and a colleague who is still struggling to understand the concept of football, let alone fantasy football.

As a real Premier League manager might say; it’s been a difficult start, but there’s a long way to go and I know there’s real quality in the squad. Unfortunately, most of that quality is now resting on the treatment table, with Bobby Zamora, Michael Dawson and Antonio Valencia all now out of action for Anton’s Wonky Lip FC until the new year at least.

But whilst my squad has certainly had its share of injury troubles, a summer transfer policy based on avoiding the purchase of brilliant, but highly annoying players, hardly helped either. The likes of John Terry, Frank Lampard and Jermain Defoe were completely off limits as a result of this policy. My gamble of selecting players who I thought would be surprise packages rather than opting for the more obvious targets like Gerrard, Drogba and Rooney, has also unsurprisingly backfired.

And so I find myself languishing in the lower reaches of the mini-league, and the butt of the office jokes. This must be how Graham Taylor felt when the nation’s press was busy comparing him to garden vegetables as England’s World Cup qualifying campaign fell apart. I feel your pain Graham.

I do of course have a “wildcard” to play - which under the terms of the fantasy football league we play in, allows me to swap the whole squad whilst retaining my so far measly points total. I’m uneasy about doing this though. First of all, it would be an admission of failure; a sure fire way of highlighting to the whole office that despite the football fanatic persona, I actually know nothing about the game at all. But secondly, and probably more importantly, it’s just not what happens in the real world: it feels like cheating to me.

Now the irony of worrying about the level of realism in a game with the word “fantasy” in the title is not lost on me, but somewhere in the depths of my strange little mind, is a view that people who are good at fantasy football are probably good enough managers to cut it in the dugout of at least a fairly awful League Two team.

As a teenager, I was beginning to build a healthy reputation as something of a bright star in the fantasy football world. Regularly winning my Mum’s company’s mini-league, I had naively thought it only a matter of time before a desperate club from the lower end of the Football League came calling and took a chance on me.

My record on the PC game Championship Manager spoke for itself too: a Champions League final appearance with unfashionable Coventry, a meteoric rise through the Scottish leagues with Montrose and a thoroughly enjoyable five year spell in the sun with Valencia were the highlights of my considerable CV. I was dedicated too - playing for so long that my eyes were almost bleeding, and even taking the lead of the late Brian Clough and taking my teams out to huge games whilst still under the influence (although I don’t remember Old Big ‘Ead playing any games at 3 am after a trip to a suburban nightclub - I raised the bar with that one).

But the call from League Two, or any other league for that matter, never came. And whilst my obsession with Championship Manager is now thankfully under control, I am still hopelessly devoted to fantasy football - even though my star has been on the wane for a number of years now. Deep down, I know I’ve lost it though. The old me wouldn’t have picked a squad without any Chelsea players in it. The old me wouldn’t have gambled on the untried Javier Hernandez at a costly £7.4m. And the old me certainly wouldn’t have bought Ryan Taylor - a reserve for relegation favourites Newcastle United.

So with the season just six games old, it’s with a heavy heart that I am going to have to resort to using the wild card. I just hope League Two chairmen don’t notice, and still remember that glorious night at Highfield Road when a Tommy Svindal-Larsson inspired Coventry made it to their first ever Champions League final….

Lies, damned lies and transfer rumours

This week's post is being formed against a backdrop of conspiracy, rumour and damned lies: that’s right, it could only be the final day of the summer transfer window.

Like I’m sure was the case for many of you today, my efforts on my return to the office from the bank holiday weekend stretched only to logging on to BBC’s live transfer deadline day feed, and clicking the refresh icon. Oh, and I popped out for lunch briefly too.

With the final deals of the day being announced as I type, it looks like being yet another uneventful deadline day, with Sunderland so far the main headline grabbers with their £13m purchase of Ghana’s world cup star Asamoah Gyan. Yet there was plenty to keep us avid transfer followers occupied.

If all the texts and emails into the BBC are to be believed, it must have been a hell of a busy day at motorway service stations today. Half the Premiership was rumoured to be tucking in to overpriced lunches as they negotiated transfers with their agents and prospective new employers.

Elsewhere, Ryan Babel was seemingly touring England in a helicopter. But where was the chopper heading? Someone said West Ham; someone else was sure it was Spurs; and unconfirmed reports suggested he was merely filming scenes for a remake of Airwolf. As it stands, Babel is still a Liverpool player, so the latter may actually be the most likely of explanations.

Players were spotted at rivals’ training grounds; international stars had been seen boarding flights to London; and anonymous texters were recounting fourth hand rumours that had originated from their mate’s Dad’s dog. Quite frankly, you couldn’t make it up. Except some people quite obviously were. A lot of them in fact.

That only a fraction of the supposed “done deals” have actually come off shouldn’t really come as a surprise. It makes little sense for clubs to try and cram all their transfer dealings into one day, when they’ve had the whole summer to refine their squads after making informed judgements on players they have tracked the season before. Yet many clubs do opt for that last minute trip to football’s bargain bucket - hoping to pick up a diamond in the rough, but instead having to make do with a Marcus Bent. On loan.

To be honest, I’m a little unsure on the actual point to the transfer window. Is it supposed to encourage clubs to give home grown players more of a chance when injuries and suspensions hit their main players? Is it supposed to level the playing field; making sure the bigger teams are just as hampered by injury crises as those with less spending power? I don’t think we can conclusively say that either has been achieved since it came in to force.

Perhaps it has been brought in simply to stimulate employment in the sports reporter industry? Sky Sports News certainly has an army of suited reporters setting up temporary homes outside Premier League training grounds at the end of August every year. Without deadline day, these pour souls would be on the media scrapheap - battling with graduates for jobs presenting early morning quiz shows.

On a personal note, I’m pleased that my club has managed to get to the end of the transfer deadline with its prized assets still on the books. This hasn’t always been the case, and for many clubs at the lower end of the English football pyramid, deadline day is something to dread rather than enjoy. It’s the day when the local heroes that they have nurtured since their teens get their heads turned by bigger clubs, and set off for the bright lights of the top flight.

It works the other way too: it can also be a day when the club’s board desperately try to sell off the family silver in an attempt to keep the club afloat. The latter is particularly painful to watch, and having witnessed my own team do just that in previous years, I feel for any fans who had to go through that experience today.

Lastly, and in no way connected to transfer deadline day, I just wanted to mention the excellent Non-League Day initiative; which is encouraging fans of clubs in the Premier League and Championship to get behind their local non-league team this weekend as the international break means there will be no football in the top two divisions. More information is available at: http://www.nonleagueday.co.uk/

Seasiders should make the most of their big days out

Last week I wrote of the emancipating quality of the opening weekend of the Premier League football season: a time when all men are equal and the strong stench of unfounded optimism fills the air.

Come Saturday morning, I was confidence personified. Not only were West Ham going to comfortably beat a chaotic Aston Villa team, but they were odds-on to enjoy a fine season that would see them finish in the top half of the table. Who knows, perhaps even a little trip to Wembley might be on the cards?

By 4.45 pm, things had changed somewhat. Dramatically in fact. West Ham had been beaten 3-0 by a far from chaotic Villa team, and match reports suggested the fact that the hosts’ goal tally amounted only to three was the only positive element to West Ham’s afternoon. Our hapless young centre half, James Tomkins, was once again, well, hapless. Our former England goalkeeper, Robert Green, continued where he left off in South Africa with a nervy display. And our attack, so toothless in our dreadful season last time out, was once again all gums.

So in succumbing to the allure of a new football season and believing once again that this year might be “our” year, I forgot the first rule of football: that more often than not, this game will let you down. Oh what it must feel like to be a Blackpool fan this week? A 4-0 away win on their maiden voyage into the choppy waters of the Premier League means the Seasiders are flying high in the embryonic (ok, utterly pointless) league table, and are already dreaming of mid-table mediocrity.

But as the old adage goes, the season is a marathon and not a sprint. Blackpool will play far better teams than Wigan this season, and both goals and points will be a lot more difficult to come by. Yes, it’s possible that they will even play teams that look like they have played professional football once or twice before, and have a goalkeeper that makes the odd attempt at keeping the ball out of his goal, rather than simply chucking it in the net whenever the thing comes near him - a la Chris Kirkland.

So as uplifting as that result at the DW must have been on Saturday, Blackpool fans will do well to exert a little caution in their hopes for the season. At the moment, they are an unknown quantity whose players are completely off the radar to the average Premier League fan. They will be able to bring that element of surprise to their first dozen fixtures, and bigger names than Wigan may well fall victim to their sheer enthusiasm.

But as Hull Cityfound two seasons ago, and many others before them, the honeymoon period doesn’t last forever. Teams will soon be prepared for their work ethic, and will be wise to their set piece routines. Journeymen footballers enjoying Indian summers at the start of the season, will return to their erratic selves come the winter and 4-0 away victories may seem as far in the past as Stanley Matthews and Stan Mortensen. And then if they do manage to stay up, there’s the daunting prospect of falling foul of second season syndrome. Oh what’s the point of all this Premier League nonsense?!

Sometimes I genuinely think life would be easier being a fan of a non-league team. Where expectations are low and so are the entrance fees. Ok so perhaps not as low as the standard of football, but maybe we’d get used to it? We’d be able to stand on the terraces and enjoy a pint with the players in the bar after the game. We’d be able to call ourselves “real football fans” and say it without any hint of a grimace.

But tempting as it may be to dust down those old rose tinted spectacles; however disappointing the first game of the season may have been, or daunting the next 10, this season’s Premier League season really is shaping up to be the most competitive yet.

The “season of austerity” has seen - with the exception of Manchester City - even the biggest of big boys tighten their considerable belts. Money is scarce and with the 25 man squad restrictions soon coming in to force, there is a levelling of the playing field for the first time in many a season.

Arsenal, Chelsea, Liverpool, Manchesters City and United and even Spurs are all in the hunt for top spot - giving us perhaps the closest Premier League title race in years. And for the first time in living memory, the three promoted sides are not dead certs for relegation.

So whilst coalition cuts are hitting pockets hard across the nation, football may be one of the few, and unlikeliest of beneficiaries. Just remember though, whether you are Chelsea, Blackpool or anyone inbetween, the only table that really matters is the one at the end of May after the 38th game has been played. Before then, we just have the small matter of 37 matches of pure agony to get through. Seasiders be warned: no-one said this was going to be fun.

Nine months and counting

It seems like only yesterday that Holland were kicking lumps out of Spain to a soundtrack of a swarm of bees in South Africa, but the summer break is almost over already and the new football season is about to begin.

Yesterday’s community shield - the traditional curtain raiser to the season - had football fans across the country flocking to their local just to catch a glimpse of semi-competitive football, after a month of getting by on the scraps that are pre-season friendlies. An evergreen performance from Paul Scholes, yet more dreadful positional play from John Terry and a promising debut from Javier Hernandez were the headlines from a game surprisingly high in tempo.

It was also an occasion for ITV to cement their position as the nation’s worst football broadcaster, with their highlights programme offering some laughable observations from their commentary team of Peter Drury and Chris Coleman. “Van der Sar dashes from his line like a child chasing sweets” was one almost sinister quip from Drury, whilst Coleman baffled viewers in describing Dimitar Berbatov as “as calm as cucumber”. Earlier, Coleman had remarked how Javier Hernandez “had probably broken his own nose” in the process of scoring United’s bizarre second goal, before adding “but he won’t care about that one bit” - something I find particularly hard to believe as no matter how good a goal I’d just scored, I would probably be a little concerned if I’d broken part of my face in the process.

Aside from sub-standard commentary and comedy goals, the game had that little bit of edge missing from all the football any of us have seen over the past four or five weeks. The summer break may be seen as a respite for many fans, whilst for others it is pure torture. Some of us have gone to extraordinary lengths to avoid any contact with the game - holidaying in far off lands where football is yet to snare the locals into its trap, or even turning our attention to other (admittedly lesser) sports such as cricket, tennis, beach ping pong or scatch.

But for the rest of us, the only option was to seek out a football fix from wherever we could - stalking the TV guide for any hint of a football related programme, and believing every transfer rumour as if it was a fact uttered from the lips of Jesus Christ himself. Actually, the latter is probably not true for Spurs fans, who must now be well accustomed to Harry Redknapp’s transfer negotiation technique that nearly almost follows a formula of 1) confess to liking a player but categorically rule out the possibility of signing him based on the size of his transfer fee; 2) reiterate like for said player and speculate on what Spurs could achieve with a player of his talent, whilst categorically ruling out the possibility of signing him based on the size of his transfer fee; 3) make an attempt to end all speculation by declaring that there is no way said player will sign for Spurs based on the size of his transfer fee; 4) make a derisory bid for said player. This works surprisingly often and always to the merriment of Richard Keys and his chums in the Sky studio.

Anyway, I digress. Whilst my own hunt for football over the summer has seen me attend the Emirates Cup, tune in to Eurosport to watch the under-19 European Championship and pay good money to watch bad football played by West Ham and Deportivo La Coruna, others will I’m sure have gone to more extreme lengths. Many English clubs now travel to US or the Far East for their pre-season programmes for example, with small groups of their fans following them all the way. And things got so bad for my Dad that he even watched the Women’s under-20 World Cup on TV whilst on holiday (look, I'm sure there was just some very good technique on show ok?).

But we can all rest easy now, the wait is all but over. And best of all, we all start the season with a clean slate. Last season’s horrors are long forgotten, and everyone thinks that maybe, just maybe this is their team’s year. The fact that deep down, we all know that it’s almost certain to be Chelsea or United’s year and no-one else’s is immaterial. For one weekend only, every team in the league is level and anyone can be top of the pile with a good result. The best of luck to one and all, and let’s make the most of it while it’s here - there’s only nine months to go for God’s sake!

Blame lies soley at the players' door

I thought it would have gone by now but no, it’s still there deep down in the bottom of my stomach and up high at the top of my throat. Over a week after England’s disastrous defeat to Germany, the anger has stayed with me and shows no sign of leaving.

Unlike with previous England debacles, the anger isn’t directed at the opposition, the referee or the manager. No, this year it’s the players that should bear the brunt of every England fan’s anger.

The squad headed for South Africa with a misplaced confidence that they would be in the running to win the tournament. Quite frankly, that now looks embarrassing. With the tournament just days away from its conclusion, it’s already clear that England were woefully short of being good enough to win the world cup.

Let’s not entertain ourselves with internet rumours of unrest in the camp; of playground tales of a divided squad where one group a players holds hands with one senior figure, and the rest hide behind another. And lets not pontificate on whether Wayne Rooney was fully fit, or if Gerrard had personal problems. These are all just parts of a giant smokescreen. The truth is very simple. England were not good enough, and deserved everything they got against the Germans.

Throughout the tournament, England played with little pace, poise or purpose. The players took to the field with an arrogance that I have never before witnessed from an international team. The USA, Algeria and even Germany - yes Germany, winners of three world cups to England’s one and the tournament’s most impressive attacking force - were inexcusably underestimated.

The squad mistook confidence for arrogance, knowhow for experience and belief for unwarranted expectation. The pedestrian performances against the USA and Algeria exposed a collection of individuals who had long ceased with the notion of making their county proud.

Everything about England’s South African adventure - from the moment they left for the finals, to Wayne Rooney’s retort to the booing fans, to the lack of apology to the thousands who travelled to South Africa and the millions at home who endured England’s painful exit in the second round - suggests that the players had only personal ambition on their mind.

There was no camaraderie amongst the players, no rapport with the supporters before or after matches and no sense of enjoyment. When it became clear that winning the world cup was actually going to be more than a walk in the park, the England team look bewildered. Desperately short of creativity, they laboured through all 360 minutes of their world cup campaign. They looked in genuine shock that they couldn’t sweep aside international defences with the ease that Chelsea, Manchester United and Liverpool usually dispense with the premier league’s many also-rans.

Predictably, England’s only response to Germany’s superior technique and tactics was to run faster. In John Terry’s case, this even stretched to running as fast as he could (which is probably walking pace for most of the other players in South Africa) to the opposition’s penalty area when England had a throw in. Terry proceeded to lose the ball and was then helplessly out of position as the Germans broke at pace and put England out of their misery.

Terry was obviously not alone in performing poorly in South Africa. Notably, Wayne Rooney was abysmal too. And that’s not “by his own high standards” abysmal - as most commentators have remarked - he was just plain abysmal. Carragher, Upson, Johnson, Heskey, Lennon, Lampard, Green, James, Wright-Phillips - the list is inexplicably long. In truth, only really Ashley Cole performed to anything like his ability, and is the one player who returned from the finals with any pride in tact.

My anger does not come from the fact that we haven’t won the world cup - I never expected us to - it comes from the fact that the players approached the task of trying to do so with such a presumptuous attitude. They seemed to believe that by saying they will win the world cup, it would somehow magically happen. As if being from the premier league is enough, and outthinking your opponent is unnecessary. It wasn’t enough, and England were found to have counted the proverbial chickens before they had hatched.

So what next for England? In August, they play a friendly against Hungary and it remains to be seen what kind of reception they will get from England supporters. The hurt will still be there, but so too will the optimism - the hope that this time, they’ll get it right and all will be forgiven. Surely Capello’s only hope of rewarding that optimism is to lay waste to the old guard, and start afresh?

World Cup 2010: Day fourteen

So it’s England versus Germany in the knock out stages. Again. We’ve been here before haven’t we, and we know it doesn’t end well. It ends horribly - with some unsuspecting fool in an England shirt planting a poorly struck penalty into the arms of a German goalkeeper.

Yet despite the fact that we all know full well that Sunday’s match will only bring us disappointment, it promises to be the most hotly anticipated England international for years. It’s England versus Germany for God’s sake - the war, Bobby Moore, Gazza’s tears and all that. A chance to avenge those desperate defeats of ‘70, ‘90 and ‘96 against the one team we all truly hate. And that’s where I’m struggling.

The truth is, I’m finding it difficult to hate the German football team at the moment. I’m not even sure I can stretch to disliking them to be honest. This doesn’t bode well for Sunday. Surely I’m supposed to be fired up for our first competitive meeting with the old enemy for nine years? Surely I should be pinning up my mid-90s Daily Mirror front pages and watching the Great Escape in preparation for footballing warfare?

But no, something is missing. Disappointingly, the current German team lack that hate factor I‘m afraid. They play vibrant, attacking football for a start - which is completely at odds with the stereotypical uninspired efficiency that previous German teams have played with over the years. They are one of the few teams of this World Cup who have thrown caution to the wind and attacked from the word go - surely that is admirable?

German league football also has much to admire. Their liberal, almost socialist approach to the game sees the fans at its heart, with rules in place to ensure supporters have a say in the running of their club, and to prevent teams experiencing the financial meltdown we saw at Portsmouth this season. Safe standing areas are implemented in top flight stadia (including those constructed especially for the 2006 World Cup), and ticket prices are wonderfully sensible (It cost me just €16 to see Hertha Berlin at the Olympic Stadium in November for example).

My trip to Berlin is another reason why I’m struggling to stir up the anti- German feelings required for Sunday’s all important encounter. Hedonistic, stylish and unbelievably friendly, Berlin is a place where even an English football fan like myself is made to feel at home (particularly surprising given that I’m not remotely hedonistic, stylish or even unbelievably friendly). My experience there will almost make shouting abuse at the TV screen on Sunday seem like some sort of betrayal - “but we welcomed you to our city with open arms Englishman, and now you hum the Dambusters theme at us?”.

I wish we could return to the days of the late ‘80s and early ‘90s when the German team (or West Germany as they were when they defeated England in Italia ‘90) were ludicrously easy to hate. They kicked, dived and wore the kind of haircuts that looked like they had robbed a porn-themed fancy dress shop before taking to the field. Their players had more than a passing resemblance to Gestapo officers from World War Two films, and even their kits were awful. Worst of all, they were bloody good.

Oh what I’d give for the current team to have a Rudi Voller figure in their ranks. Sporting a poodle perm teamed with a caterpillar moustache, Voller was utterly ridiculous. He would throw himself to the floor as soon as a defender was within earshot. He would argue with referees about anything from penalty appeals to the weather. He had a semi-permanent look of smugness on his face that was only briefly wiped off when Frank Rijkaard decided he’d had enough of Voller’s poodle perm, and promptly spat in it - back in the second round of Italia 90’.

But no, the current team doesn’t have a Rudi Voller figure in the squad. Instead they have Mesut Ozil, a player who is simply a joy to watch. Heck, they don’t even dive that much anymore - how on earth are we supposed to hate them?

There’s only one answer. Dig out that tape of the semi-final in Italia 90 and turn the sound down, put that Pavarotti CD on and fast forward to Gazza’s fateful tackle on Thomas Berthold (a man Gazza described as a “wanker” and having “a mouth like a fish”). Watch Berthold scream, roll, roll and roll some more to make sure England’s player of the tournament was booked and suspended for the final. Watch first Stuart Pearce, and then Chris Waddle, miss their penalties in the shootout and the ensuing pile-up of celebrating Germans. Wait for the tears to fall and the anger to re-emerge, and you’ll be ready for Sunday afternoon.

World Cup 2010: Day nine

Two games down and it’s not looking good is it. In fact, it’s looking decidedly bad. Last night, England somehow managed to conjure up a performance that made their exploits against the USA six days earlier look heroic.

Devoid of both imagination and spirit, it’s hard to remember a worse performance from England in a World Cup. It was a night when English football shifted into reverse and the progress made by Fabio Capello over the last two years seemed to be washed away in the space of 90 painful minutes.

It was almost as if we had gone back in time to the dark days of the early 90s - when Graham Taylor presided over a shambolic England team that regularly included the gangly legs of Carlton Palmer. Just like then, the collection of players representing England last night - I think it’s stretching it a bit to call them a team - played a style of football desperately lacking in creativity. Passing was woeful and defending barely any better.

Much of the blame will fall on the sizeable shoulders of Emile Heskey. So much has already been said about Heskey’s dismal goal scoring record for England, and almost the whole country questions what exactly it is he brings to the team. But putting things in to perspective, Heskey has done OK in both games that England have played. By no means has he been good, but he’s played to his admittedly limited ability, and the criticism he has received would be better targeted in the direction of Wayne Rooney.

Rooney is supposedly the star of the England team. The current PFA Player of the Year, he was predicted to be the spark that ignited the fire in England’s collective belly, and would drive them on to a certain tournament victory. To say he has failed to live up to expectations would probably take the prize of understatement of the century. Last night, he failed to complete even rudimentary tasks such as controlling the ball and passing it to a team mate. And judging by his comments to the cameras after the game, Rooney wasn’t happy about the reception the players got as they left the field last night.

To be honest, I’m with Wayne on this one. Surely the thousands of fans who have raided their life savings; jeopardised relationships, jobs and friendships to travel half way around the world should have the decency to applaud, nay cheer, their team off the pitch after enduring an absolute abomination of a performance? In all seriousness, Rooney’s reaction was a disgrace and he should publicly apologise for it.

Being a Manchester United player, he’s probably not used to his own fans expressing displeasure with the team, but he really should wake up and come join us all back in the real world. The very least that performance deserved was booing and Rooney himself should take a fair share of responsibility himself.

Maybe Capello could have prepared his players for this reaction though. For instance, had he flooded the team with West Ham players, they would have been perfectly comfortable with being jeered from the field and there would be none of the childish reactions that we saw from Rooney and others. To be honest, they would also have been perfectly comfortable with playing the aimless, error-stricken football that England have so far served up - so Scott Parker, Mark Noble and the other eligible players who didn’t make the squad are no doubt at home thinking they would have fitted straight in under Capello.

Let’s hope that the booing, or Rooney’s reaction to the booing, does not deflect attention away from the utter awfulness of England’s performance last night though. The squad need to know how poor they were. They need to know how angry supporters are with them. And they need to know that what they delivered last night - that pathetic excuse for a display of footballing prowess - is nowhere near good enough and will not be accepted by the fans.

Judging by the reaction of the press and the pubs so far, if the players take on board even a fraction of the criticism coming their way, we will see a dramatic improvement in the hugely important fixture against Slovenia on Wednesday afternoon. The people are angry and demanding more, but more importantly we still have hope. We hope that Rooney regains his blistering form of last season. We hope whoever comes in for the suspended Jamie Carragher looks more convincing than the latter did. We hope that England’s most creative player, Joe Cole, gets at least some time on the pitch to express himself. And we hope, although maybe no longer believe, that this is our year.

World Cup 2010: Day four

Four days in to the World Cup and so far so so. The tournament is yet to catch light, although the vast majority of the human race would gladly watch a mass pile of vuvuzelas set a blaze in the middle of Soccer City.

High points so far have been the uncharacteristically stylish way in which Germany dispatched of Australia; the hosts' morale boosting draw with Mexico that proved they are far from the incompetent mess we were led to believe they were; and at last, a decent performance from Steven Gerrard in a major international tournament.

Low points from the tournament include a distinct lack of goalmouth action - to date only Germany, South Korea and Holland have managed more than one goal, the woeful standard of free-kicks and of course Rob Green's howler against the USA.

As a West Ham fan, I'm struggling to come to terms with Green's error. I feel partly responsible in some way. As soon as "it" happened on Saturday, I closed my eyes and prayed that the rest of the pub I was in were oblivious to the fact that I supported West Ham. I felt at fault in some way - as if Rob Green was not responsible for the mistake but West Ham collectively - and as a supporter I too was culpable.

I've spent the few days since Saturday telling anyone who will listen that Green doesn't make those kind of mistakes in the Premier League and he remains an excellent 'keeper. I've also studied replays of Dempsey's shot to desperately try and see the ball swerve wickedly on its way towards the goal or skip off the turf with a freakish bounce. But no, it was just a horrible, horrible mistake. One that even the most hungover of Sunday league goalkeepers would be hard pressed to make and on behalf of West Ham, I would like to apologise to the nation.

I'm sure this acceptance of collective responsibility is of no consolation to Rob Green and will not prevent him from featuring on both the front and back pages of our national newspapers, but the mistake has masked what was a pretty ordinary display from England on Saturday night. Short of imagination and predictably poor at keeping the ball, the performance was hardly one to strike fear in the likes of Spain, Brazil or any of the other favourites. Still, a point is a point and far from a terrible result. Two wins in our final group games will almost certainly see us top the group - although just a tiny bit of cohesion in midfield against Algeria on Friday wouldn't go amiss.

Away from England and thinking about my wallet, the team I drew in the office sweeptstake - France - were somehow even more disappointing than England in their opening game against Uruguay. Anaemic, impotent and any other medical term that can be loosely applied to football, the French offered nothing in a game that threatened to send even the commentary team to sleep. My chances of taking any of the prizes look slim, which I suppose at least saves me the indignity of cheering France on in the later stages of the tournament. Fortunately West Ham don't have any players in the French squad, so I don't have to feel responsible for their ineptitude.

Room for improvement all round then but with Brazil, Spain and Portugal all yet to play, I'm sure it won't be long before we see the tournament's first stand out moment. Hopefully it will come in Friday's game against Algeria. Rob Green either saving a hat-trick of penalties or single-handedly rounding up every vuvuzela in the ground before snapping them in half, whilst keeping a clean sheet, would be my preferred options.

Sweepstake sorrow

We’re tantalisingly close to the start of the World Cup and the anxiety has set in. The reason for this anxious state is not concern that Rooney won’t control his temper or that Diego Maradona will stick to his promise to run naked through Buenos Aries if Argentina win the tournament - no, it’s all thanks to the office sweepstake.

Everyone is familiar with the concept of the sweepstake - you chuck a couple of quid into an envelope, and then pull a little piece of paper with the name of a country on it from another. You hope you’ll draw Spain and stand the best chance of keeping the contents of that first envelope for yourself, whilst crossing your fingers that you don’t pull out New Zealand, North Korea or any of the other teams with little or no chance of winning.

Equally, you’re afraid of picking teams for whom you reserve a hatred for, yet know they stand a decent chance of winning. I’m thinking Argentina, Germany and particularly after their play-off with Ireland, France. Nobody wants to get France. To have to cheer on a team who made the tournament by being masters of the dark arts of football would stick in anyone’s throat. Well I got France.

At the risk of sounding like some awful hybrid of Jeremy Clarkson and Richard Littlejohn, it’s exceptionally easy to dislike the French football team these days. With the peerless genius that is Zinedine Zidane sadly now retired, there a very few, if any likeable players in their squad. The sulky Nicolas Anelka remains, as does William “if you don’t let me leave I’ll score an own goal” Gallas and also friend to Paris’ red light district, Franck Ribery.

But thanks to two of the most blatant handballs you’ll ever see, one man has outdone them all and scooped the title of most hated footballer in the French camp. Step forward Thierry Henry - formerly the pride of Islington, currently the scourge of decent football fans across the world.

His inclusion in the French squad means France are unlikely to win the support of many neutrals in South Africa this year. But you get what you’re given in the sweepstake and I’m afraid that means I’ll be donning a beret and striped sweater whilst cheering on the French through gritted teeth.

Thanks to the generous redistribution policy of our sweepstake, I still stand a chance of taking home some funds without having the agonising task of cheering on the French to victory. Prizes are given for first, second and third, with smaller amounts dished out to the unfortunate soul whose team finishes with the worst record and also the team that takes FIFA’s Fair Play award.

As my team is known for posing, cheating, moaning, cheating and cheating, I very much doubt they will pick up a prize for fairness. Unfortunately, they also have a vast amount of talent in their ranks, so they’re just as unlikely to scoop the wooden spoon. So I’m left with hoping they scuff their way through to the semi finals before going out - preferably in humiliating style that may involve someone catching the ball on the half-way line, bouncing it all the way to the penalty area and then rolling it underarm into the net.

But until we get to the last four, I’ll be glued to the TV with my little scrap of paper in hand quietly chanting “allez les bleus”.

Time to let the gatecrashers in

With the Premier League season now drawn to a close, our heads are immediately turned in the direction of Don Fabio and his task of selecting a provisional World Cup squad.

At this juncture, I could have inserted a lazy election-based analogy about how one man must make a decision that will combine the talents of representatives from red, blue and God knows what other colour teams for the good of the country. But that would be lazy, so I won't.

Instead, I'll cut immediately to the chase: who will make the initial squad of 30, from which Fabio Capello must pick his final squad of 23 for the World Cup finals in South Africa?

Some players are guaranteed their place on the plane; Gerrard, Lampard, Terry, Ferdinand and Rooney - please proceed to the departure lounge. Others such as Defoe, Milner, James and Johnson would be both heartbroken and amazed not to be on the final list, whilst those on the fringes such as Upson, Carrick and Wright-Phillips may have their passports in their hand but will just be starting to sweat a little.

And so our attention turns to those looking to gatecrash the party. The provisional squad is essentially designed for this group. The potential gatecrashers, if selected, will have just a two week training camp and two friendlies to prove they are deserving of a place in England's squad for the finals in June and July.

Every team at the World Cup needs a wild card, and it's usually the gatecrashers who represent this member of the pack. Think Paul Gascoigne in Italia '90, or even Sir Geoff Hurst for the committed nostalgics out there. They bring an element of surprise to games that come the finals, opposition so keen to stifle Rooney and break down Terry and Ferdinand will not have accounted for.

Players in contention for the initial 30 include Fulham's Bobby Zamora. As someone who's seen Zamora miss chances from every conceivable angle, it still seems bizarre to be mentioning the words "Bobby Zamora" and "England" without the words "will never play for" inbetween. But Zamora has excelled during Fulham's heroic Europa League campaign this season, and deserves the chance to at least show Capello what he can do.

Scott Parker is another player who must surely be in Capello's thinking. Parker last played for his country in England's disastrous 2-0 defeat in Zagreb, but has been in outstanding form for West Ham this season. At times it has seemed as though he has played the opposition on his own and with Barry injured and Hargreaves yet to prove his fitness, he may be the best defensive midfield option we have.

Staying in midfield for the moment, England's left side problem (copyright circa 1991) has been eased in recent years by Joe Cole's consistency. But the Chelsea midfielder is only just rediscovering his form after a serious injury, and will need to have a ready-made replacement should his form or fitness falter. Step forward one Adam Johnson of Manchester City.

Yes he is raw, yes he was playing Championship football six months ago and yes he is completely unproven at international level. But Johnson has pace to burn and in international football, that's like finishing third in a popularity contest and still managing to have the winner and runner-up fighting for your attention. Remember what I said, no lazy election analogies.

Other players who should expect to receive a phone call from the FA today (or email, text, tweet, wall post) include Phil Jagielka - who although not spectacular, has the advantage of being able to fill in at right back and defensive midfield - and Tom Huddlestone, whose fine passing and thunderous shot makes up for his almost complete lack of mobility.

And so in the unlikely event that Don Fabio reads this blog before announcing his squad today, he will at least have a few pointers to work with. Whatever he decides, the rest of us won't have to wait very long before we are in on the secret, and that's when the World Cup countdown really begins.

Hammers should forget Olympic dreams

As I sat on London’s Docklands Light Railway and my train trundled through the heart of Stratford’s soon-to-be Olympic Park this week, it struck me how unbelievably difficult it is to not be inspired by the forthcoming London Olympics.

The train wobbled it’s way past the impressive aquatics centre, before offering passengers a close up view of the Olympic Stadium – already close to completion despite the games not due to start for another two years. Both structures are enormous, and just beyond them you can also make out the velodrome – again, pretty much ready and waiting for Chris Hoy et al to don their Lycra outfits and use it to take a leisurely ride around.

But aside from the hugely impressive new arenas being built, anyone taking the DLR on that route between Stratford and Canary Wharf will get a sense of just what an enormous transformation is taking place in East London, and what the potential opportunities for British sport could result from it. The sheer size of the site is enough to drop jaws.

How on earth have they found a patch of land in an inner London borough, big enough to build an Olympic Park? Somehow, miles and miles of what was essentially wasteland have been found in a corner of East London, and it’s now being put into good use at a rapid rate.

To see one of the country’s most deprived areas benefit from such large scale regeneration must certainly be seen as positive. At the very least, even the most ardent of sceptics would surely agree that putting such a vast plain of derelict land into some kind of use is beneficial to the area? Well, you would imagine so, but there are plenty of those who believe the London Olympics will be a “glorified sports day” or to put it more crudely, “a waste of money”.

In defence of the project – which seems such an inadequate word for a development of this size – Government ministers and officials from leading sports organisations have muttered the word “legacy”. Ah “legacy”, the golden word that can put all arguments to bed without the speaker ever having to know what it means – a little like George Osborne robotically repeating the phrase “we are all in this together”. But to really make sure the London Olympics is not a glorified sports day, it’s true that a lasting legacy must be left behind.

Football has not always caught the public’s imagination as an Olympic sport, mainly because the rules mean squads are made mostly from players aged under 23 and therefore many of the game’s top stars do not appear.

However, it certainly looks like football will have a role to play in the legacy of the London Olympics. Organisations are currently working on bids to secure the use of the stadium post-Olympics. My own team West Ham has expressed an interest in making it their home – forming a partnership with Newham Council to ensure the “community interests” box is ticked. Leyton Orient has thrown its name into the hat as well.

Out of the all the options being put forward, retaining the stadium solely for the use of athletics is looking less and less like the most viable – despite it being the one promised to the IOC as part of London’s “legacy”. Doing this would mean reducing the stadium’s capacity from 80,000 to under 30,000, which seems a missed opportunity, and also a bit of a waste of time. I imagine if I’d worked on any part of the stadium that could be considered “the section between 30,000 and 80,000” I’d be a little miffed to find they had tore my handy work down like an irate customer unhappy with the plumbing at his new house.

At the same time, I don’t want to see West Ham move to the Olympic Stadium whatever its capacity – especially since Karen Brady floated the idea of changing our name to “Olympic West Ham”. “Olympic West Ham” – seriously? It sounds like a dodgy travel agent on Barking Road rather than a football club.

But despite the prospect of a name change making us the laughing stock of England, I don’t want the club to move to the new stadium because I simply don’t want to leave our current home. I realise this makes me sound like a difficult child who despite the assurances of his parents, fails to see the benefits of moving from his current house to a shinier bigger one a little further out of town.

The problem is, I’ve grown up at Upton Park and for all its failings – only getting a scoreboard five years ago, horrendous queues for the station after the game, nowhere to park, less than beautiful surroundings – it’s our home. It’s been the site of both the sublime and the ridiculous, often in the same match. The grass has been graced by the likes of Moore, Hurst, Brooking and Di Canio, and less impressively so; Steve Jones, Robbie Stockdale and Allen McKnight. I’ve witnessed good West Ham teams, bad West Ham teams there and bloody awful West Ham teams there. And like most other West Ham fans (and to the annoyance of those who don’t like clichés), I’ve experienced the extraordinary atmosphere that the crowd conjures up when games of significance are played “under lights”.

The Davids have promised that a move to the new stadium will ensure we have the cheapest tickets in the Premier League, and are able to bring in the revenue that will propel us to being regular participants in the Champions League. That all sounds great, but let’s be honest; it’s not going to happen. This is West Ham after all. We’re never going to play in the Champions League, and there’s even less likelihood of our tickets being the cheapest in the Premier League. If there is a way of making something financially unviable, West Ham will find it.

My gut instinct though, is that the Davids and Brady will find a way of pushing the deal through. It may be many years before we are there, but I do expect West Ham to be playing their home games at the Olympic Stadium before the decade is out. What they will do with Upton Park doesn’t bear thinking about.

Moving home and moving leagues

I’ve been missing in action of late – stranded in some unknown corner of the blogosphere with no way of knowing how to get home.

The stress of moving home and following a team embroiled in a relegation battle is the admittedly weak excuse I will use for the lack of column inches produced for CBM in recent weeks.

If the truth be told, I should have seen it coming. We are now in what is officially know as the “business end” of the season – having apparently sailed through the “charity beginning” and “public sector middle” to get here – so given West Ham’s traumatic season so far, I should have predicted that more drama and stress was afoot.

In some ways, moving home and negotiating your way through the business end of the season are very similar. You know that you should really be excited, but all you can see are numerous obstacles preventing you from completing your task and ultimately, you just want it to all be over one way or another.

Having finally unpacked the last of what seemed like 250 bags and boxes of possessions, I can now turn my full attention to tearing my hair out at West Ham’s so far impotent attempts to stay in the Premier League.

Our recent 3-1 home defeat was “earned” thanks to as bad a performance as I can remember: not just from West Ham, but of any team, of any age, competing in any sport. As we trudged out of the ground on that cold Tuesday evening, many of us were of the opinion that the players must be actively trying to get us relegated. That was genuinely the most rational of explanations we could come up with.

But just as families sat down to celebrate Easter last weekend, West Ham finally started fighting fro their Premier League lives. The point achieved at Everton on Sunday afternoon was done so with the kind of battling display that is usually only ever produced by one man in a claret and blue shirt – Scott Parker.

Unfortunately, Parker’s battling qualities saw him pick up a tenth booking of the season, and as a result he will now miss two of our five remaining games. So we head into the business end of the season with our best account executive out of the office, and unable to attend important meetings with the Sunderland and Liverpool branches.

Even after Sunday’s performance has offered us a glimmer of hope, I still feel like I just want it all to be over now – even if that means being relegated. I’m basically not comfortable with West Ham being involved in games where the stakes are high, or in fact, anywhere above low-to-medium. I’d much rather these high pressure games be the sole preserve of the like of Manchester United, Chelsea and those other strange clubs that start the season genuinely expecting to win something.

I always feel West Ham are much more at home just for want of a better phrase, mucking about. At school, we would be the bright kid who talks too much. The one who produces one beautifully written essay out of four and could be in the top set if he applied himself a little better.

Unfortunately, it now looks like every one of our five remaining games will be tight, tense affairs. This weekend, West Ham fans will face the depressing prospect of paying close attention to the result of a fixture between Hull City and Burnley. Ten years ago, if someone had told me the result of such a game could affect West Ham’s league position, I would have assumed that some awful financial scandal had seen us demoted two divisions. Actually, Sheffield United are probably still campaigning for that to happen.

But West Ham’s saving grace is that Hull and Burnley are so bad that we will probably only need to avoid defeat in three of the five games to stay up. In fact, Hull and Burnley’s combined ineptitude will probably seem them both somehow emerge from Saturday’s game with no points.

If West Ham play anything like they did against Wolves a couple of weeks ago, we may need that to actually happen. And if it does? Well, it will at least all be over and I can look forward to away trips to Blackpool and Scunthorpe.