Ctrl+Alt+Delete To Get Sacked

Apologies for the lack of new items to all – sorry, both – of sitegeist’s readers. If anyone asks, I’ve done my bit for the writer’s strike taking place across the pond, and therefore have been unable to sit and write anything worthy of note.

Not that there’s no news out there – heaven forbid. Problem is, everything that has possibly been written about England, Steve McClaren and the state of the national game has already been written. Shame on whoever it is to blame, seems to be the general message.

What’s been quite amusing to observe through all of these epitaphs for the country (Queen Victoria’s “lie back and think of England” has taken on a whole new context) is the trend of turning aggressive opinion in to what appears to be a half-time team talk to the nation.

Recently, I’ve become a big fan of Pro Evolution Soccer. The Playstation game is a firm favourite for weekday lunchtimes, and I’m absolutely hopeless at it. I’m often given a thorough roasting, yet I still love it, as boys will be boys and computer games will indeed be computer games.

Like all other football games, Pro Evo has developed itself to be sold not just as an action-sports game, but also one of tactics. Aeons are spent trying to marshal the players in to their optimum formation, dragging and dropping individuals in to their best position, what part of the pitch they should cover, comparing player abilities against similar team members using complex graphs, and whether or not you should just play long ball and hope for the best.

Another game, Championship Manager, goes one better – here you’re involved with the more day-to-day hive of activity you can expect as the gaffer; everything from training, team discipline, transfers and whether or not you should actually admit to the board you actually just play long ball and hope for the best.

And herein lies the problem. While everybody huddled around their Playstations trying desperately to make data-configurated statistics (represented on their screens as Nigel Reo-Coker) give them the win they crave, they sincerely believe they’ve got the entire England team sussed. Of course, armchair managers aren’t a new thing. For decades, the bloke collective would demonstrate their failsafe starting XI for their team, but with the advent of tactical gamers making them believe they’ve got the entire team sussed, we’re all smacking our heads in disbelief, wondering if McClaren still only has his copy of FIFA ’96 on his PC.

Hamilton Academic

Is 3 really the magic number? Dan Brown’s thrillers, for all their blurring of the lines between myth, legend and fantasy, recognise the numbers 2 and 5 as the most potent of numerals, the number 2 for the male/female opposite and the duality in nature, and 5 for the symbolic pentagram. Its bestseller rival Harry Potter has a lot of 7 references – sum total of 2 and 5, lucky number 7, rather mystical in its context. I personally have a thing for the number 4. I like it for its musical aesthetic. No, seriously.

In sport, 3 is the king – a hat-trick is the ultimate achievement. Or, for British Sport in October, it was the ultimate disappointment. Left teetering on the brink of failing to qualify for Euro 2008, let down at the final push for surprise World Cup glory, and poor Lewis Hamilton denied rookie glory and the prospect of becoming the best racing driver the world has ever seen for, aw, like, ever.

The third and final sporting failure deserves a big round of applause, with tea and medals all round. I’m still coming to terms with the idea of someone the same age as myself being able to outmanoeuvre world champion drivers at incredible speeds on tracks he’s had little to no experience on – he’s got talent and skill way beyond his years.

Now he’s moving to Switzerland. Boos and jeers all round! We hate you Lewis, don’t expect any more support from Blighty!

The knuckle-draggers who protested at his leaving the country are the people Lewis wants to get away from. Journos noted it was ironic he decided to announce his departure the same day Stevenage announced they’re naming a street after him. Let’s face it, that ‘irony’ is in fact perfect justification for Lewis leaving the country. Everyone now wants a piece of the Hamilton bandwagon.

So why Switzerland? Well he’ll be left alone alright, he said himself people just don’t bother you there. But the tax breaks will also stack up highly in his favour. Second round of boos and jeers! Money-grabbing fool.

Well clearly the tax breaks will work in his favour, and he’s already a very wealthy young man, but will that change his outlook on racing? He’s a level-headed and extremely mature person, certainly not the Hooray-Henry champagne swiller Charlie James once was in the 60s. He will get back in his McClaren (with any luck minus the distraction of Senor Alonso) and will be desperate to claim the crown he knows should’ve been his.

Death Of The Football Fans' Weekend

Those who remember The Fast Show as their comedy of choice, which was in its heyday almost a decade ago, will remember with great fondness one of Paul Whitehouse's strongest characters, Ron Manager. The ageing pundit, who cropped up in every series of the sketch show, often went off on a merry old ramble on the good old days of football, with the rose-tinted specs of small boys and jumpers for goalposts recounting the finer points of The Beautiful Game.

While the joke behind the sketch culminated in the fact that Ron was completely barmy about football, enough for him to ramble on about football in general and ultimately forget to offer any sound punditry. Still, he made a better panelist than Graeme Le Saux.

Some of Ron's nostalgia, though, is dear to our hearts. Often, a football fan's entire weekend is carefully crafted around seeing their team in action. Travelling to and from the ground is one aspect to take in to consideration, and a pre-match pint is vital for lubricating the vocal chords, the post-match pint to either revel in victory or drown one's proverbial sorrows in defeat. Throw in the compulsory greasy fry-up breakfast and a plate of beans on toast to tuck in to over Match of the Day and you're left with the perfect knees-up weekend. Isn't it? Wasn't it? Marvellous.

This Saturday, only the two claret armies of Aston Villa and West Ham will have the small pleasure of taking part in the drawn out ritual, as for the first time their game will be the only Premiership game to get underway at 3 o'clock on Saturday. In fact, the only other game that afternoon will be Wigan's trip to Old Trafford, but it's an early start for the Mancunians, with Sky posting a 12.45pm kick off time. Sky have also managed to shift the games at Blackburn, Bolton, Fulham, Liverpool, Man City, Newcastle and Reading to Sunday, while Setanta have also rescheduled Arsenal's game against Sunderland to the Sabbath Day.

It really shouldn't be rant against the premium broadcasters having God-like control over the Premier League, but poorly timed kick-offs are not popular for those who've paid good money to clamber through the turnstiles. The worst game I ever watched was Chelsea against Arsenal, not only because of a ghastly 3-0 defeat for the blues, but because the game kicked off at noon on a Sunday. Then-captain Dennis Wise started off his matchday programme notes with: "12 o'clock? It's a bit early, isn't it?! I usually like to sleep in 'til 12 on a Sunday."

You certainly weren't alone there, Dennis.

Maybe we're reading too much in to it, but the social demographic of football is dependant upon the 3 o'clock kick off. It stems from the working-class fan base of the 18th Century and you can set your watch by it today. If indeed you feel things are getting too deep, I advise you to tune in to Match of the Day this Saturday. Even with an abridged running time of 45 minutes, it'll be interesting to see how Gary Lineker can stretch to pad out just two games and September's Goal of the Month competition. Still, with Mark Lawrenson ready to tear in to the analysis, who needs Ron Manager?

Push The Boundaries

Poor Sussex - after the nail biting climax to their season, clinching them the county championship, their open-top bus 'parade' looked absolutely pathetic. Perhaps they'd simply bundled their way on to a replacement bus service covering engineering works on Southern Railways and just hadn't told anyone.

By contrast, India whooped with delight after staking their claim to the first Twenty20 World Championships. Bright flashy kits with squad number and letters on the back, a cosmopolitan party audience, and the tension of a penalty shoot-out style 'bowl out' to decide a tied game - this is cricket turned sexy.

Traditionalists have been quick to castigate those who believe this is the sole way to open up cricket to the masses, and it's difficult not to agree with them - while the new format is designed to promote sharper bowling and spectacular drives to the boundaries, it leaves players open to silly mistakes and games can often be thrown through reckless batting.
The truth is that Twenty20 compliments ODI and full-on test cricket just fine, and that with time we'll come to appreciate the three more as disciplines of the sport rather than have each one alienated from the others.

On the other hand, I can't help but feel we're missing a trick with Twenty20. In five years time, Lords will open their doors to fans of the bow and arrow - Olympic archery will be held in the ground for the 2012 games. Now we have a discipline of cricket that can be completed in half a day, why not put the sport forward for the London games? It would seem apt to mix such a traditional sport with the celebration of sporting triumph - but enough of the cheesy stuff, for once we can add a genuine, globally-celebrated sport to the list of Olympic events when in the past, modern additions have been mickey mouse at best (ballroom dancing) to the downright daft (like the time when an entrant for Olympic Judo thought he was entering for Olympic Ludo).
Better still, Olympic Cricket would provide some fantastic opportunities for countries further down the medals table. US and Russia, for once, won't stand a chance even for the bronze.

We can but hope that Twenty20 will evolve to a point where it's played particular in youth competitions as a starting point for full-on test match cricket and a will run as a neat double-act for the 50-over one day structure.

Ashes? What Ashes?

So long, Jose, and thanks for all the eggs

Please forgive this article for writing this in the style of stream-of-consciousness, but there’s been such a flurry of activity this morning it’s hard to shepherd all of one’s thoughts in to a carefully penned article.

This morning I overslept only to be ushered in to the front room, where trying to readjust my eyes to the burning daylight, the news running along the ticker bar was unmistakable; Jose Mourinho and Chelsea were no more. Through a haze of jam on toast and cold tea, names were suddenly flying about, trying to pick out managers who were either:
A) world class and up for the job;
B) out of work;
C) an option if Chelsea needed them; or
D) not even managers, but suitable heirs to Jose’s crown.
And so it began – the first ones were already being bandied about on Sky Sports News; Guus Hiddink listed as favourite. Then came the not-so obvious. Martin Jol could do with a change. Steve McClaren, if England failed to qualify (see previous article). Sven could be drafted in at a push. Colin Calderwood wasn’t having much luck with Forest this season. Even Ghandi was mentioned. Yes, Ghandi. It was very early on in the morning.

As it turned out, his successor is none other than Avram Grant. As the football world frantically consults Grant's entry to Wikipedia for more information on this man seemingly plucked from obscurity, it transpires that he had more than a hand in team affairs while Jose was in charge.

Which leaves us with speculation on where Jose will go next - frankly, it won't matter to most. The bookies seem to be offering distorted prices on his next move and once he'll have sorted out the severance package from his contract (due to run until 2010) he'll be able to take a while to consider his options.

So it turned out that the Cantona-esque egg conference was to be his last philosophical rambling with the Chelsea lion stitched to his jacket. For some who have grown jealous of his remarkable tactical ability conjoined with his arrogant post-match wit, they say good riddance. For others, who recognise the need for characters such as Jose in football, he will be sorely missed. For Chelsea fans, the blow is devastating.

How nobody saw it coming boggles the mind. Two draws and a loss from the last three games in all competitions is certainly not great, even without Drogba or Lampard, but cast your mind back to Christmas last year and things were certainly looking just as bleak. It was here that Chelsea lost last season's trophy, scraping a 2-2 draw with Wigan and only managing to cajole the same result against Fulham, before drawing a blank against Villa. Cup wins against lower league opposition did nothing to mask the fact that, without John Terry and Petr Cech, Chelsea were a shadow of their former self, and eventually slumped to a 2-0 defeat to the hands of Liverpool. Played four, won zero, drawn three, lost one. Three points from a possible twelve. Sound familiar?

In the notorious 'sack race' at the start of the season, indifferent starts are often cited as the main reason for when the axe is swung. Chelsea's start may not yet be as bad as their Christmas form of before (yet), but it's the timing of the poor run that's all important.

Speaking of timing, the circumstances surrounding the final hours of Jose's reign are a sight to behold. Manager and squad alike go to the cinema not far from Stamford Bridge to watch DVD of the last three years premiere at the cinema. Essentially, this new DVD is a celebration of Jose's time at the club. If only the producers had waited a little bit longer before taking the final cut to the pressers, they'd have had the timely ending to boot. Meanwhile, an emergency board meeting agrees that the omelet-lover's time is up. A quick meeting later and it's all complete, with the two parties agreeing to a mutual consent departure in the small hours of Thursday morning. The whole thing is hushed - yet how can you expect the fallout to be hushed? Were the board simply hoping that nobody would notice Jose wasn't at his post any more until people started wondering why he wasn't in the dugout Old Trafford? The club's website 'statement' read thus:

Chelsea Football Club and Jose Mourinho have agreed to part company today (Thursday) by mutual consent.

That's not the gist-of-it version, that's the whole statement. Either the club didn't want to get too drawn in on things or the statement-writer was on holiday. It would seem something fishy is going on, and Grant's quick appointment suggest he's known for a while he would be next in line - being good chums with Abramovich helps. Now his first task is to get the dressing room morale back up, bring John Terry back to form, and find a team sans Drogba and Lampard to beat Manchester United. It's going to have to be a Special One.