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.

Do You Still Believe In Steve?

Rejoice! The disbelievers are silenced – we are better than Israel and Russia at home. And well done to Steve for making the brave decisions that won the day – and that includes picking Emile Heskey twice. The back pages are full of praise and the qualifying table has swung round to balance in England’s favour.

I hate to be cynical, it’s just something is niggling in the back on my mind. We’re in second place. One point behind Croatia. Maybe it’s the modern pressures of the drive to win that’s flooding the Premiership, but I really want England to win Euro 2008. Or, at the very least, make the final – give us something to be proud of. Will we win against France, Germany, Italy or suchlike in the quarter- or semi-final stage? With the current look of things, the answer is no.

Before the Israel game, my mind was made up; McClaren must go, even if England were to win both games. Now that they actually have won them, the task of convincing has been made all the more difficult.

The first factor in wanting McClaren to go is the reason mentioned above; if we manage to scrape through, do we really believe we have a chance of winning the Championship? It’s simply not good enough to get by with the minimum of decent performances and perhaps even finish second in qualifying on head-to-head on goal difference against teams we really ought to be rolling over with ease. If we’re struggling to do that, what hope do we have when it comes to the big games?

The FA made a big mistake in rushing to ask Luiz Philipe Scolari if he’d take the England job just days after he made it public knowledge that he had a gentleman’s agreement with Portugal. Obviously part of their criteria was to employ Sven’s replacement before the start of the World Cup in 2006, but if they’d made an exception to the rule with Big Phil, we would’ve steamrolled this group. But I gripe.

The second argument for keeping the pressure on Steve is because he needs it. Despite looking thoroughly browned off with anyone with a Dictaphone in their hand after the Andorra debacle, he rose to the challenge and, finally, the results are in full bloom. In the run-up to the World Cup in 1998, the respected sports magazine l’Equipe piled a ruthless, unrelenting hate campaign against national coach Aime Jacquet, calling for his resignation numerous times. For the most part, it was pretty unfair; France had no qualification games to have to contend with, as they were in the finals automatically as hosts. They gained maximum points from the group phase and battled to beat Paraguay and Italy after extra time and on penalties respectively. They eased past a tricky Croatia semi-final and, after spotting that Brazil can be a little slack on set pieces, the rest is Zinedine.

Perhaps it was that torrid pressure that helped Jacquet through. We heaped the same pressure on Sven, but he managed to brush media attention aside quicker than you can lay Ulrika. Sorry, that should be say Ulrika. With Steve, the hate mob appeared to get to him at first, but this is a man who sees things through to the end – he’ll never jump before he’s pushed.

So McClaren’s job is safe and all we can do is hope he’s got things right. England has an excellent new depth in midfield with Sean Wright-Phillips, Gareth Barry and Joe Cole. Many are worried that having an excess of choice is bad for the English game – I welcome it with open arms. If these players really want to play for their country, let them prove their worth. And even if we end up with Frank Lampard, Wayne Rooney and company on the bench, opposition must be quaking in their boots, and the tactical options at our disposal will become a huge weapon in McClaren’s hands.

The Only Way Is Up

Seeing the rather sickening sight of Keiron Dyer have his leg shattered from behind certainly wasn’t a video nasty – or replay nasty – compared to, say, Henrik Larsson’s leg splitting horribly in two, or the aberrant picture’s of Dave Buust’s tibia making a unwanted appearance, much to the disgust of Peter Schmeichael.

Nethertheless, we can now watch the long montages on Sky Sports News of newly-transferred Hammers coming a cropper in their debut appearances. The Curse Of New West Ham Players seems to be coming spookily true.

One football curse which is nothing more than an urban myth is the Manager Of The Month award. The legend goes that the gaffer whose strength of will over the last four-and-a-half weeks has put their team in a commanding league position, or marshaled their players in to a better-than-expected performance, usually collects his Barclays-emblazoned trophy, keeps a hand firmly clutched to the token bottle of champagne, and promptly lets things slip the following month. Their team drops back in to the obscurity of mid-table and the murmurings amongst the fans resumes.

It’s all in the mind though; Kevin Pullein of the Guardian points out that runs of form can indeed occur in monthly patches, and that said winning streaks are seldom repeated across the rest of the season.

Fortunately for Dennis Wise and Leeds United, things can’t really get any worse. That’s no fault of their own, obviously, but I can’t really remember the time a manager has scooped the prize with their team bottom of the league the entirety of the month they earned it for.

Wise described the award as “a little tap on the back saying ‘we do apologise’ from the Football League.” You can’t help feel sorry for him, either – and this is coming from someone whose loyalties are split between Chelsea (sworn enemies of Leeds for decades) and Northampton Town, League One rivals of the Elland Road club.

They’ll easily be back though – Sunderland pulled off an amazing assault on The Championship under the cold steel nerve of Roy Keane, and the way things have gone this month, Leeds are on for at least a playoff place. Unless the curse is true.

Wooden Spoon For Spurs

Being young and of a generation brought up on a diet of Premiership football supported by sponsorship en masse, it’s quite refreshing to settle down and tune my freeview box to Sky Three, where a rerun of Football Years can take us back down a memory lane we’ve yet to venture in to. For those not familiar with Football Years, the show is essentially an irreverent look at a particular football season and the cultural impacts of the time. It’s lazily put together with old archive clips and ex-pro and D-list celebrity talking heads, but it’s become compulsive viewing – staple diet of late evening telly.

The other night the show focussed on the 1989-1990 season. In the twilight years of the old Division One, we could hardly believe our eyes when MC Harvey (who else) told us of the sad state of affairs Manchester United was in. What, THE Man Yoo? Left to languish in 13^th place? Yup, that’s where finished. One place beneath Coventry City. To say that their fledgling manager was under pressure was under pressure is a bit of an understatement. But somehow, despite months of media and fan hounding, the United board stuck with Alex Ferguson. The mind starts to unravel at an alarming rate when you wonder what would’ve happened if United had lost their patience too early.

So, when should you start to worry about the team’s performance enough to take action? One man under the cosh is Spurs manager Martin Jol. Bottom of the league without a point is, quite frankly, rubbish. But is it really that bad with just two games played? Well, let’s examine the facts. Firstly, their loss against Sunderland is a tough one to call. Many have the Mackems marked down for a bottom-of-the-table finish or a golden era under Roy Keane. I must confess I’m in the latter camp. But until we see who the real Sunderland is, we can’t say too much about them.

We’re left with the midweek opponents Everton. Spurs fans had a right to boo their team off the field. But were they ever dead-cert favourites to beat the Toffees? No.

Everton are a very respectable side, and to assume you’re going to beat them is asking for trouble. They scored three very good goals to win. But the sports reporters told the story that Tottenham conceded three goals and lost. This is grossly unfair on Everton, and I anticipate a great season for them if they can maintain this sort of performance week in, week out.

It all boils down to this – would these two losses have the same shock value to the White Hart Lane faithful if they happened midseason? Just because it’s the first two games it’s certainly not a precedent. Other teams have picked themselves up after poor starts and finished respectably without having to sack the manager. Jol is a godsend for Tottenham, who have had some turkey managers in recent times, and it would be unwise stare at these first two games under the microscope for too long.

If nul points is a bad start for Tottenham, two points out of six for Manchester United – disastrous, surely? Without Rooney or Ronaldo for the next few matches, Ferguson is probably thankful he was attack-minded in the transfer market this year. The derby game against City looks a mouthwatering treat, and the match against Chelsea looms heavy. In the past few seasons, the race for the title has always been a game of catch-up; keep winning and hope your opponents slip up. Now Chelsea already has a four point head start. This makes the game against Liverpool crucial for ensuring the Blues don’t drop valuable points.

Only one week in, this weekend’s Premiership fixture list never looked so good.

Season 2007/2008 Preview

Like a child at Christmas Eve, the hour is finally upon us. Tomorrow, I drive Danny up to his first home for the grand opening fixture at Sixfields against Swindon. As clocks strike three across the land, terraces and tiers great and small will get things underway. It’s a cheesy way to describe the start of the football season alright, but at the risk of incurring the wrath of hyperbole, it looks set to be an absolute cracker.

Picking up my flatmate’s copy of FourFourTwo, you begin to realise how much has happened since it all came to a crescendo in May. All eyes are on Chelsea and Manchester United for the main battle. The onus this year seems to be on who’s going to pick up the most injuries – have we really got to the point where there’s so little to choose between these two that it all comes down to the toss of a coin? I’d like to think that there’s more to it than that. Surely these teams have shown they have bad days, or even a run of poor form, that keeps the title so tight. Liverpool are serious contenders this year – in Fernando Torres they have the complete squad now. They’ll be able to push for the title this year. Provided they don’t pick up too many injuries.

At the risk of upsetting the red northern half of London, Arsenal may struggle this year. Unless Arsene Wenger can produce miracle from the likes of Cesc Fabregas, they may find themselves lacking. I’m reminded of the also-rans Chelsea squad of the late nineties – ability to produce wonders in the big games, but giving a half-baked performance against teams you’d normally expect them to beat. To that end, I expect a tough challenge for the fourth Champion’s League place – Tottenham being the favourites to step up to the plate. Everton may have a strong squad, but I think Newcastle will have a stronger campaign. Bringing up the list, West Ham should be this year’s surprise team if they can get their act together. And provided they don’t pick up too many injuries.

At the wrong end of the table, the three plucky hopefuls recently promoted face the inevitable battle of slotting in to 17^th place. The respite for them is that there are some contenders for the drop. Last season’s great-escapers Wigan face a fight without the excellence of Paul Jewell at the helm, and Fulham’s treacherous end to the season could well be a sign of things to come.

Finally, Carlos Tevez has finally got clearance to play for United by the Premier League. The bitter irony of this saga is that Sir Alex isn’t going to play him against Reading.

Edwin Shielded From His Finest Hour

I remember a time a few years ago when we were all shaking our fists at the ill-gotten contractor Multiplex. You can expect a tin-pot cowboy builder to make a pig’s ear of your patio extension, but for a company who were given responsibility of rebuilding the most famous stadium in the world into a modern masterpiece it was a proper shambles. Hundreds of millions of pounds over budget, Wembley was eventually opened years after the projected opening date.

Yesterday, with hindsight, I was pining for Multiplex to have gone that little bit further in their uselessness and opted to have delayed the handover date even further down the line - so that Cardiff would've had the honour of hosting the 2007 FA Cup Final. The reason for this indulgence of cynicism is that the Community Shield would’ve made a far better debut for Wembley based on the entertainment on show.

It’s what Chelsea versus Manchester United would’ve been about – arguably the two greatest teams going head to head and demonstrating why they’re the mightiest in the land. Players were fresh and returning from a summer free from national duty (South American company excluded). It was clear back in May that the teams were nothing short of knackered after a grueling season.

There was less a stake on Sunday, not least from the embarrassment of losing. Without taking anything away from the Community Shield, the notion of having an oversized fifty pence piece missing from your trophy cabinet carries far less heartache than the dread of collecting a runners-up medal in the FA Cup Final. The upshot of this gravtation towards a more friendly match, not exactly a must-win game, gave us free-flowing football and a very well-worked goal from each team respectively. It reminded us of the good old curtain-raiser spectacle it was always intended to be.

The one problem I found, much to the chagrin of the red half of Wembley, was that the man of the match award was announced with four minutes of normal time to play. This wouldn’t have been a problem for the fact that extra time was never meant to be played, but the sight of Ashley Cole grinning as if someone had stuck a coathanger in his mouth as he clutched his man of the match award and large bottle of champers was just buttock-clenchingly wrong.

Part of supporting Chelsea has always been to respect your opponents, not least if said opposition put in a strong performance against the Blues and craft themselves a win. Manchester United applied a classy and entertaining performance and the draw in normal time was the fair result for both parties. The kudos to United came in the shoot-out, where they thoroughly deserved to win thanks to the man of the match that never was; Edwin Van Der Sar.

OK, so his rather elongated face reminds me of the ‘My Lovely Horse’ song sung on that episode of Father Ted even more so than fellow countryman Ruud Van Nistelrooy. And in his post-match interview I was caught off guard by his uncanny vocal similarly to Andy Pipkin of Little Britain. When it comes to saving penalties, though, he’s absolutely first class.

Saving three spot kicks out of three, Van Der Sar spread himself like a deployed parachute, a mass of cloth exploding outwards to cover what looked like half of the gaping goalmouth. What look liked flailing arms and legs stuck out at random was in fact a cold, calculated judgement of player movement in that fateful run-up. Somehow, he was able to guess exactly which way Messer’s Pizarro, Lampard and Wright-Phillips had chosen to place the ball, and parried each one perfectly. I tip my hat to you, sir, the heir to Schmeichael’s crown, and look forward to an exciting Premiership season.

Downsizing – Stamford Bridge to Sixfields (Part 2)

It’s become something of an urban myth, the football ground burger. Or so it would seem. Perhaps the image of perfectly-prepared prawn sandwiches at Premiership grounds across the land were making the idea of an undercooked burger seem not just dated, but just a complete over-exaggerated. Football’s fast losing its image as the working man’s pastime, with the lure of lucrative prizes proving a magnet for business acumen proving irresistible. Even so, I somehow was convinced by my housemate to travel to the most northern end of the Northern Line on the tube to sink my teeth in to a burger that was inexplicably hot on the outside yet still stone cold in the centre. It was playing Russian Roulette with my stomach, but it tasted of real football – and that made it delicious.

To say that 2006 was a good year was an understatement. We’d both got our degree results and the early summer air was rife with celebration. Chelsea had done it – they’d won back-to-back Premiership titles. A poster bearing the roaring lion of Stamford Bridge adorned the living room. Accompanying it, though, was another similar homemade poster. This one was of centre-forward Scott McGleish, arms aloft, lapping up the applause of a sea of people I had naively mistakenly as wearing ‘dark red’ coloured shirts. The correct term, you see, is claret. And the claret spilled over in to a large club crest, with the superimposed text:

NORTHAMPTON TOWN – PROMOTED 2006

Having visited my first Cobblers game against Barnet, I was suddenly hooked. Many people have missed the point of football. Cast your mind back to the first goal you scored at school. The feeling stays with you. That feeling can only be replicated in a Football League ground – the intimacy and good old sense of fun is blotted in to obscurity by a 40,000 seater stadium. In a one-tier stand on a chilly winter afternoon, you finally get the feeling you know what Paul Whitehouse’s character Ron Manager was on about in his waxing lyrical ramblings. For a ticket a fraction the price of a Premiership game, you’re buying in to a sense of fun in footy.

So now things are in limbo. I’m still watching out for Chelsea – you really can’t let go of them after all these years with them – but as a parting present when I moved out of my old house, Danny gave me his old Northampton Town shirt. I’ve still got it now we live together again, and I’ve worn it on my travels with my new adopted team. I’ve laughed at chavs in a goalless draw at Bournemouth. I’ve gawped at Brighton & Hove Albion’s bizarre Withdean Stadium. I’ve chanted 'what a load of rubbish' when the Cobblers were thrashed 4-1 in the Cup - when was the last time you could crack that old chestnut at Stamford Bridge? I’ve cheered in sheer delight on my first visit to Northampton’s Sixfields, with the match abandoned with 20 minutes to go with Millwall leading. And I’ve been dressed in a white lab coat in Doncaster…long story.

Last season, Town finished 14^th place in League One. Big deal. But the bottom line is I’d rather see Cobblers tough out a win to earn that league position than watch Chelsea take another win with everybody else in the ground expecting the cakewalk. Much rather.

I hate to advertise external links on this site, but this one deserves special mention. You can find more on the trials and tribulations on Danny's blog, aloadofcobblers.blogspot.com - it pretty much sums up the unique matchday enjoyment I've just described here.

Jamie Shoesmith is currently away.

If your club ain't broke, don't fix it

Before I take in the second part of my journey in to the claret wilderness, it’s time to do a quick summer stocktaking on the team I originally started supporting back in 1994. United had just put four past Chelsea at Wembley. I’m still glad I chose the losing team on that fateful Cup Final day.

For all the usual schtick about Chelsea’s spending, this summer’s ‘spree’ has been, if I may be so crude, like that cruellest of farts…silent, but deadly. The signing of Florent Malouda was a promising move – early speculation suggests that this may be similar to the headhunting of Michael Essien, whose fee seemed tenuous at first through lacklustre early performances for the blues along with a mass of spectators not really sure what to expect. Indications are through Arjen Robben’s fidgeting over signing a new contract is that Malouda may be a permanent fixture.

The thing is - as Mourinho has pointed out rather bluntly - that this signing is the first one this year where Chelsea have actually paid a fee. The club’s intentions to break even by 2009 have led to the somewhat vain hope that free-transfer captures will prove to pay dividend in the meantime. Claudio Pizzaro has the best chance to prove that theory right on recent performances win the Copa America, while Steve Sidwell seems to have everyone clamouring to the notion that he was better off as a big fish in a mediocre-sized pond at Reading. Messers Malouda and Alves (with the latter expected to sign imminently) have been the only two arrivals with price tags attached thus far.

Some may be surprised by the flurry of activity this year in the increasingly business-like transfer market; my housemate quite correctly identified the fact that you can’t hear Carlos Tevez’s name mentioned on any recent sports bulletin without the phrase ‘transfer saga’ mentioned in the same breath. However, it’s actually quite understandable for 2007 to be the year for all this commotion. World Cups are usually the time for the papers to make wild screams at spectacularly over-inflated transfer valuations on players based on one or two form performances for their country.

Following the rather forgettable World Cup last year and the dust finally settling on Italian match fixing scandal, clubs this summer (with the lack of any major competition in Europe apart from the U-21 Championships) have had the opportunity to be left to their own devices.

Liverpool have always held my admiration, and their recent takeover bears hallmarks of spending to the same level as Abramovich minus the initial outcry of cash-flashing arrogance. Spending at Merseyside has an edge of panache, with the new owners Gillett and Hicks making a point of camera-friendly appearances and attaching their heartstrings to the club very early on. The addition of Torres is a massive coup for a club in desperate need of a striker to recapture the league title in the same way John Aldridge and Ian Rush did back in their pomp.

Up the road in Salford, the accountants at United are having a field day. Last season seemed on the face of it to rely on the Rooney and Ronaldo show, but this is simply an urban myth – they were just the two key performers in an organized show of team discipline that took the Premiership crown back to Old Trafford. Now, with the addition of Hargreaves, Nani and Anderson, to say the squad is strengthened is an understatement. The coffers have been prised open, and once the Carlos Tevez transfer saga is resolved, spending will have hit £50 million. Will all these signings provide a slight unnerving in the United camp? Sorry for the rhetoric, but I wouldn’t doubt the Glazers had a hunch that spending this year at Stamford Bridge would be a bit leaner than previous seasons. We can but see.

Downsizing – Stamford Bridge to Sixfields (Part 1)

I still make a point of keep hold of my old Chelsea ‘keepers jersey. The black top bedecked with silver and green shoulder cross-stitch is perhaps closely identified by the smashed-down Times New Roman logo of Autoglass, the kind shirt sponsors of the time. The contrast between the current swish, sleek Samsung Mobile branding and the old-style top once worn by the moustachioed porn star of the football world himself, Ed de Goey, couldn’t make itself more apparent. Yet still the fearsome lion, in its old incarnation, adorns the CFC lettering on my old top.

I keep it – and wear it, when convenient – mostly as a personal reminder, but also a polite buffer to prevent the usual arguments that any Chelsea fan can encounter. Immediately, any fan of any club worth their salt will recall that Autoglass sponsorship era, 1997-2000. Ruud Gullit and Gianluca Vialli steered Chelsea to the cup, giving the league leaders a small nudge at their capability and, every so often, having flirtatious jaunt in to Europe.

Since the bankroll for the club has become a whole lot healthier than Mr. Bates’ era, I’m sometimes in a mind to carry a set of cue cards or script to be able to bat away any questions that come my way, usually loaded questions designed to look half-polite but . What used to be mild banter towards to underdog club has, at times, become a full-blown interrogation in to the financial dealings of Mr. Abramovich himself or whether I believe we ‘bought’ the title.

I should apologise; this sounds like an awfully tiresome supporter’s rant, bemoaning the curse that befalls any champions. It happened to Alex Ferguson’s ‘jammy’ United in the nineties, the notion that Jack Walker’s millions fluked the title to the Black Country. Even the glory days of Arsene Wenger at the turn of the millennium even has something that other fans just felt was…well…wrong.

Even so, the grace that once saw the homegrown talent of Paul Furlong and the mighty physical foreign talent of Erland Johnson are now replaced by the ruthless calculating brilliance of Jose Mourinho and the glory shower of silverware – but the fun of supporting Chelsea has now become a chore.

Two years ago, I met my now-flatmate Danny. Taking early second-guesses as to his back story, I was guessing that a big-time Premiership club would be seeing their colours draped across his back. Liverpool, maybe. Perhaps Villa – his veiled midlands accents was a dead giveaway. No, eventually I had it in my head he was a ManYoo lad, the glory-hunting fool.

I was meaning to ask which team he supports, but the answer came on a Sunday morning waking up on his couch, following a heavy night out of student merriment. Sunday morning wake-ups are reserved for the re-run of last night’s Match of the Day, so to be greeted (along with a steaming cuppa) to Championship and Football League highlights felt a little wrong - especially when Danny became a whole lot more attentive when Northampton Town were introduced. Something was afoot.