Sorry about the limited posts recently. It's because I've just started my new job. We had Staff Development Day on Thursday, which has kept me busy for days. At least I didn't have to make sandwiches for a few days, while I polished off the remnants of the buffet. I even had a go at the vegetarian meals.
Did you know you could actually eat vegetables? I'd always wondered how they worked. I mean, I like to follow received medical wisdom and I've been getting my five a day for years, but it shouldn't hurt quite so much from now on.
So that's one source of discomfort eliminated, but there's still the more rarefied sense of unease occasioned by my previously mentioned moral dilemmas. This was my first, and here for you now is my second.
It comes from Man City's last two games, shown on Sky on successive Monday nights. They were both perfectly entertaining games (Man City 3-1 West Ham and Aston Villa 1-1 Man City), yet I couldn't stifle the odd twinge of cognitive dissonance. Or whatever it's called now. I can't be expected to follow everything, you know.
It was all Craig Bellamy's fault. Villa and West Ham both struggled at times to contain him. When I say contain I don't mean seal in an airtight space, that's just wishful thinking. I mean his greater pace got him behind their defences rather more often than they'd have liked. Once they'd realised how little they could do about this, they settled for just kicking him anywhere they could connect with as he flashed past.
It wasn't an ethical approach, or particularly effective in footballing terms, but in the absence of any other effective strategies they tested this one to breaking point. It seemed like every five minutes the camera was zooming in on Bellamy's lumpen features as they creased and buckled in agony, the scars sunk like ammonites into the Devonian rock face of his brow.
I couldn't help wondering if there was a cameraman whose specific job was to capture these moments. This would make perfect sense for a TV company, whose business is after all to show us the things we really want to see.
But is it right? I propose a moral test for the question of whether we can enjoy Bellamy's suffering. It's a sporting version of the theory of the just war, establishing the moral hurdles we have to cross before we can truly savour the moment. I call it the Schadenfreude Test.
Firstly, Bellamy has to be a twat. This hurdle has clearly been crossed.
Secondly, it has to be impossible for our pleasure in his pain to reach him in any way. This is because twats can also suffer. It follows that we can laugh in the pub, at home or on the bus, but we ideally shouldn't point and laugh five yards from his prostrate form. It's a high standard I'm setting, I know, and until I've been within spitting distance of a writhing Bellamy I'm really in no position to judge anyone else, but if we can't at least aspire to be Stoics there seems little point in having a moral philosophy at all.
Finally, and most crucially, he has to be actually playing football at the time. If he's just out shopping or having a quiet meal and people keep going up to him and blatantly kicking him on the shins and calves, particularly at that sensitive point just behind the right knee that seems to cause him the most exquisite hurt, then we should probably stifle our amusement, amble over to the incident and casually suggest his assailants tone it down a little. After all, we're not monsters.
Tuesday, 6 October 2009
Sunday, 27 September 2009
Outside the box
See, I told you. It isn't just us. Following on Bristol City's miraculous goal line clearance (the line at the back of the goal, that is), it now turns out there's been some goal-based shenanigans in Sweden too.
This time the culprit was Gothenburg keeper Kim Christensen. He's actually Danish, just in case there are any Swedes out there feeling slighted, or for that matter Danes feeling unslighted. If you watch the video on the story on the Times website (Cheating goalkeeper Kim Christensen faces fine), you can see him - well, editing the shape of his goal.
Specifically, he pulls the post out of its hole, and kicks it in a bit. Instead of having to defend a goal twenty four feet wide, he now has a mere twenty three feet and nine inches to watch over.
I got the tip from a goalkeeping friend a few years ago, and since then I have done it from time to time, he said. The referee seemed to be unsure how to proceed. Had I seen him do it I would have warned him. I think so, anyway — it is not easy to find that rule.
Commenter Paul G was sure what he thought. The goalkeeper is a cheat and his intentions if not his actions are the sort which is ruining sport.
Well yes, Paul, I'm sure that's how Gandhi would have seen it, but you seem to have missed the crucial point, which is how funny it is. For sport to have been ruined by such actions it would have to have been some kind of noble endeavour in the first place, rather than just a non-comestible supplement to coffee and sugar-based treats, existing purely to fill the gap between lunch and the earliest you can decently go to the pub.
Christensen's trick reminded me of the Kobayashi Maru manoeuvre in Star Trek, a no-win simulated test for cadets which a young Captain Kirk beats by hacking into the software which controls the simulation. Accused of cheating, he claims he is just thinking outside the box.
Perhaps the Christensen manoeuvre will gain a similar reputation. Subterfuge or innovation? The choice, lovely readers, is yours.
So that was my first moral dilemma of the week. I'll be telling you about the second soon.
This time the culprit was Gothenburg keeper Kim Christensen. He's actually Danish, just in case there are any Swedes out there feeling slighted, or for that matter Danes feeling unslighted. If you watch the video on the story on the Times website (Cheating goalkeeper Kim Christensen faces fine), you can see him - well, editing the shape of his goal.
Specifically, he pulls the post out of its hole, and kicks it in a bit. Instead of having to defend a goal twenty four feet wide, he now has a mere twenty three feet and nine inches to watch over.
I got the tip from a goalkeeping friend a few years ago, and since then I have done it from time to time, he said. The referee seemed to be unsure how to proceed. Had I seen him do it I would have warned him. I think so, anyway — it is not easy to find that rule.
Commenter Paul G was sure what he thought. The goalkeeper is a cheat and his intentions if not his actions are the sort which is ruining sport.
Well yes, Paul, I'm sure that's how Gandhi would have seen it, but you seem to have missed the crucial point, which is how funny it is. For sport to have been ruined by such actions it would have to have been some kind of noble endeavour in the first place, rather than just a non-comestible supplement to coffee and sugar-based treats, existing purely to fill the gap between lunch and the earliest you can decently go to the pub.
Christensen's trick reminded me of the Kobayashi Maru manoeuvre in Star Trek, a no-win simulated test for cadets which a young Captain Kirk beats by hacking into the software which controls the simulation. Accused of cheating, he claims he is just thinking outside the box.
Perhaps the Christensen manoeuvre will gain a similar reputation. Subterfuge or innovation? The choice, lovely readers, is yours.
So that was my first moral dilemma of the week. I'll be telling you about the second soon.
Wednesday, 23 September 2009
The ballad of wandering Sol
I've always had a bit of a soft spot for Sol Campbell, especially after all the abuse he's had, but you'd have to say he's made a bit of a fool of himself this time (Campbell makes Notts County exit).
It's a sorry tale of how far we've fallen from our honest hardworking roots, in our corrupt, money grabbing modern world (© Livy c. 27 BC). It was a fall of three divisions in Sol's case, from Spurs, Arsenal and Portsmouth to Notts County of League Two.
Notts County, though, aren't just any League Two team. They've been bought by Arab money, and they're spending big and bringing in the top talent. Their new manager is Sven-Goran Eriksson, former manager of Lazio, England and Manchester City, and famous enough to have his own Alison Jackson lookalike.
They were rumoured to be paying Campbell £40,000 a week to secure his services. His contract was for five years, in which time he'd have earned £10 million. Just to put that in context, City defender Bradley Orr, two divisions higher, is on £8,000 a week, and would earn a mere £2 million in that time.
But now he's gone. He signed for five years, then he left after one game. He's nearly as wrong about the length of a contract as creationists are about the age of the Earth. Actually that would only be true if his contract was 12,000 years long, but you get the idea.
Apparently losing 2-1 at Morecambe was too much for him. He may also have belatedly realised what your average League Two dressing rom was like. Even if County won repeated promotions, a feat they're some way from so far (League 2 Table), it would take three years to get back to the top level. That's a lot of trips to places like Macclesfield.
Now personally, if you offered me £40,00 a week I would regard Macclesfield as an acceptable destination. I might even be prepared to countenance Aldershot or Workington. But then Campbell is already a very wealthy man. I wonder, how rich do you have to be before £40,000 isn't enough money to sit in a dressing room where the paint is peeling and pull on a kit that isn't designed by a major fashion house?
In other news, Rovers player David Pipe has been arrested for brawling in the street (Player in fight probe suspended). They say he broke someone's skull with a bottle on Park Street. How appropriate for someone who sounds like a Cluedo weapon.
It's a sorry tale of how far we've fallen from our honest hardworking roots, in our corrupt, money grabbing modern world (© Livy c. 27 BC). It was a fall of three divisions in Sol's case, from Spurs, Arsenal and Portsmouth to Notts County of League Two.
Notts County, though, aren't just any League Two team. They've been bought by Arab money, and they're spending big and bringing in the top talent. Their new manager is Sven-Goran Eriksson, former manager of Lazio, England and Manchester City, and famous enough to have his own Alison Jackson lookalike.
They were rumoured to be paying Campbell £40,000 a week to secure his services. His contract was for five years, in which time he'd have earned £10 million. Just to put that in context, City defender Bradley Orr, two divisions higher, is on £8,000 a week, and would earn a mere £2 million in that time.
But now he's gone. He signed for five years, then he left after one game. He's nearly as wrong about the length of a contract as creationists are about the age of the Earth. Actually that would only be true if his contract was 12,000 years long, but you get the idea.
Apparently losing 2-1 at Morecambe was too much for him. He may also have belatedly realised what your average League Two dressing rom was like. Even if County won repeated promotions, a feat they're some way from so far (League 2 Table), it would take three years to get back to the top level. That's a lot of trips to places like Macclesfield.
Now personally, if you offered me £40,00 a week I would regard Macclesfield as an acceptable destination. I might even be prepared to countenance Aldershot or Workington. But then Campbell is already a very wealthy man. I wonder, how rich do you have to be before £40,000 isn't enough money to sit in a dressing room where the paint is peeling and pull on a kit that isn't designed by a major fashion house?
In other news, Rovers player David Pipe has been arrested for brawling in the street (Player in fight probe suspended). They say he broke someone's skull with a bottle on Park Street. How appropriate for someone who sounds like a Cluedo weapon.
Tuesday, 22 September 2009
Derby games
There were three this weekend. First off, on Friday night in the Championship, there was the Sheffield derby, United against Wednesday.
That was the usual exposition prematurely assuming knowledge, and here's the usual clarification. I can't be bothered to pretend it was spontaneous. You're not stupid and I'm not making Paul Merson in China, so I think we can dispense with that particular narrative device for once.
A derby game is a game between two local rivals. This is why Derby are only allowed to have one team, otherwise you'd have the Derby derby. No of course that isn't actually true. In fact, Derby have derby games against Nottingham Forest.
There are two Sheffield teams, Sheffield United and Sheffield Wednesday. The reason for the name Wednesday, says Wikipedia, is that they were originally a butchers' cricket team who played their matches on a Wednesday, which was half day closing for butchers. I'm quite prepared to believe this, on the grounds that Wikipedia club sites are zealously guarded by fearless sentinels of the truth, who for instance seem to regard replacing Rovers with Wankers as some kind of solecism.
It was a great game, actually, the best I've seen this year. United went 3-0 up before half-time, but Wednesday came back strongly after the break and scored twice, keeping the game tense right up to the final whistle. I came back home with a big beaming smile, and my first (drunken) words were I fucking love football, to the general amusement of my housemates.
There weren't any derbies on Saturday, unless you count Wycombe v Milton Keynes, but they made up for it on Sunday, with three. The big one was the Manchester derby, United v City.
It was another thriller. 2-2 with ten minutes to go, and United grabbed the lead, only for City to equalise just on injury time. Five and a half minutes into an injury time that should have been four minutes long, Michael Owen won the game for United.
They were totting up the seconds on Match of the Day. Adrian Chiles added fifty five seconds for the City goal and thirty seconds for the Carrick substitution, to give 5 minutes and twenty five seconds for the correct injury time. The goal was scored on 5 minutes and twenty six seconds. By the strictest letter of the law, the ref should have blown up just as Owen was about to shoot.
Except that it isn't as clear as that. In fact, the ref is required to play at least the time shown, but can add extra time on if he feels it's due. Generally, he waits until there's a lull in the play, and blows up then.
It's a strangely chaotic way to decide something so important, and so straightforwardly countable. I've got a better way. Put timekeeping entirely in the hands of the fourth official. When time is up, he blows a horn, like they do in rugby league. At that point, the game ends the next time the ball goes out of play.
In this case, the horn would have blown just as Owen was shooting. His goal would have snatched victory from the jaws of drawing, with the very last kick. What a brilliant way to end a game.
That's my idea, anyway. I'll expand on it soon in another post.
The other memorable moment was Craig Bellamy assaulting a fan who'd run on to the pitch. Mark Hughes said this about it.
Brian Clough clipped someone's ear. He was lauded a national hero. Maybe it'll be the same with Craig but I doubt it.
I doubt it too, Mark. After all, Clough hit one of his own fans. And there was a mass pitch invasion going on at the time, not just one twat. Most tellingly, though, Bellamy hit the fan while he was being restrained by the stewards, an action Clough would never have stooped to unless there was a bung in it for him. There's being a have-a-go hero, and then there's joining the secret police.
The mainstream media seem to be taking a cautious approach. Never mind, the evidence is here on Youtube (Craig Bellamy slap).
There were two other derbies in the Premiership. Chelsea played Tottenham, and Everton played Blackburn. Neither were top draw derbies, the ones that really get the fans' blood surging through their veins and running along the gutters. Spurs are much more bothered about Arsenal, and Chelsea about Barcelona. Everton v Blackburn would have been a Lancashire derby during the Boer War, but the reconstruction of local government may have taken some of the sting out of it.
They were both good games though without the element of last minute drama (Chelsea 3-0 Spurs, Everton 3-0 Blackburn). Check the highlights if you can - oh, you can't, can you? Never mind.
So, four derbies and eighteen goals. Skill, passion, mindless thuggery, everything you want from football. It's made me want one in Bristol. It would need Rovers to get promoted and us not to, but after last weekend it almost seems worth it. And let's face it, we'd destroy them.
Finally, a word of sympathy for Plymouth fans, travelling to Newcastle for the least derbylike fixture in the domestic game. A round trip of sixteen hours, the worst bit being the 3-1 thrashing in the middle. If you're a Bolton fan you've got six away games within forty miles, but the Plymouth faithful have to go 119 miles to get to their nearest game. Which, you've guessed it, is us. As far as they're concerned, we're their local derby.
That was the usual exposition prematurely assuming knowledge, and here's the usual clarification. I can't be bothered to pretend it was spontaneous. You're not stupid and I'm not making Paul Merson in China, so I think we can dispense with that particular narrative device for once.
A derby game is a game between two local rivals. This is why Derby are only allowed to have one team, otherwise you'd have the Derby derby. No of course that isn't actually true. In fact, Derby have derby games against Nottingham Forest.
There are two Sheffield teams, Sheffield United and Sheffield Wednesday. The reason for the name Wednesday, says Wikipedia, is that they were originally a butchers' cricket team who played their matches on a Wednesday, which was half day closing for butchers. I'm quite prepared to believe this, on the grounds that Wikipedia club sites are zealously guarded by fearless sentinels of the truth, who for instance seem to regard replacing Rovers with Wankers as some kind of solecism.
It was a great game, actually, the best I've seen this year. United went 3-0 up before half-time, but Wednesday came back strongly after the break and scored twice, keeping the game tense right up to the final whistle. I came back home with a big beaming smile, and my first (drunken) words were I fucking love football, to the general amusement of my housemates.
There weren't any derbies on Saturday, unless you count Wycombe v Milton Keynes, but they made up for it on Sunday, with three. The big one was the Manchester derby, United v City.
It was another thriller. 2-2 with ten minutes to go, and United grabbed the lead, only for City to equalise just on injury time. Five and a half minutes into an injury time that should have been four minutes long, Michael Owen won the game for United.
They were totting up the seconds on Match of the Day. Adrian Chiles added fifty five seconds for the City goal and thirty seconds for the Carrick substitution, to give 5 minutes and twenty five seconds for the correct injury time. The goal was scored on 5 minutes and twenty six seconds. By the strictest letter of the law, the ref should have blown up just as Owen was about to shoot.
Except that it isn't as clear as that. In fact, the ref is required to play at least the time shown, but can add extra time on if he feels it's due. Generally, he waits until there's a lull in the play, and blows up then.
It's a strangely chaotic way to decide something so important, and so straightforwardly countable. I've got a better way. Put timekeeping entirely in the hands of the fourth official. When time is up, he blows a horn, like they do in rugby league. At that point, the game ends the next time the ball goes out of play.
In this case, the horn would have blown just as Owen was shooting. His goal would have snatched victory from the jaws of drawing, with the very last kick. What a brilliant way to end a game.
That's my idea, anyway. I'll expand on it soon in another post.
The other memorable moment was Craig Bellamy assaulting a fan who'd run on to the pitch. Mark Hughes said this about it.
Brian Clough clipped someone's ear. He was lauded a national hero. Maybe it'll be the same with Craig but I doubt it.
I doubt it too, Mark. After all, Clough hit one of his own fans. And there was a mass pitch invasion going on at the time, not just one twat. Most tellingly, though, Bellamy hit the fan while he was being restrained by the stewards, an action Clough would never have stooped to unless there was a bung in it for him. There's being a have-a-go hero, and then there's joining the secret police.
The mainstream media seem to be taking a cautious approach. Never mind, the evidence is here on Youtube (Craig Bellamy slap).
There were two other derbies in the Premiership. Chelsea played Tottenham, and Everton played Blackburn. Neither were top draw derbies, the ones that really get the fans' blood surging through their veins and running along the gutters. Spurs are much more bothered about Arsenal, and Chelsea about Barcelona. Everton v Blackburn would have been a Lancashire derby during the Boer War, but the reconstruction of local government may have taken some of the sting out of it.
They were both good games though without the element of last minute drama (Chelsea 3-0 Spurs, Everton 3-0 Blackburn). Check the highlights if you can - oh, you can't, can you? Never mind.
So, four derbies and eighteen goals. Skill, passion, mindless thuggery, everything you want from football. It's made me want one in Bristol. It would need Rovers to get promoted and us not to, but after last weekend it almost seems worth it. And let's face it, we'd destroy them.
Finally, a word of sympathy for Plymouth fans, travelling to Newcastle for the least derbylike fixture in the domestic game. A round trip of sixteen hours, the worst bit being the 3-1 thrashing in the middle. If you're a Bolton fan you've got six away games within forty miles, but the Plymouth faithful have to go 119 miles to get to their nearest game. Which, you've guessed it, is us. As far as they're concerned, we're their local derby.
Sunday, 20 September 2009
Monetising my blog
Well, the results are in.
For August, I had 405 unique visitors, which earned me 61p on the old Google Ads. For the first pint I buy on the first day of every month, the bag of pork scratchings now comes free.
I did a spreadsheet, obviously. It turns out if I want to earn £2000 a month, I only need 43,656 visitors a day. And I'm getting ten already. Nearly there, really.
For August, I had 405 unique visitors, which earned me 61p on the old Google Ads. For the first pint I buy on the first day of every month, the bag of pork scratchings now comes free.
I did a spreadsheet, obviously. It turns out if I want to earn £2000 a month, I only need 43,656 visitors a day. And I'm getting ten already. Nearly there, really.
Friday, 18 September 2009
Sweet reason
A commodity which was in short supply in this piece (Why are so many Premier League goals scored from set-pieces). Apparently this season 42% of goals in the Premiership have been scored from set pieces, rather than from open play. A set piece is a free kick, penalty, corner or throw-in.
It's not an uninteresting question, and I did make a spreadsheet. Alas, my hopes of a frenzied orgy of detailed statistical analysis were frustrated by a simple lack of data. A mere month into the season, with a grand total of 127 goals scored so far, there just isn't enough to work yourself up into a decent lather over.
Instead, let's all just laugh at the idiots involved, purely so we can all feel superior. Not the author, one Stuart James, who seems to have done a decent enough job with a dismal brief, namely to draw some drastic conclusions from a short-lived statistical blip before it regresses to the mean. No, I refer to the expert help.
First up to the plate, Stoke manager Tony Pulis. I think people are now coming to realise that you can use set-pieces to your benefit, he said, especially the top clubs who have got more quality players - that means more quality corner kicks and free-kicks.
Yes, Tony, except that the data they've given you to look at quite clearly shows the opposite. In fact, the top clubs are scoring a higher percentage of their goals from open play. The five most set piece-oriented clubs are on average thirteenth, whilst the top five have a set play average of only 30%. You are, exactly, wrong. Just like when you decided you wanted to play for Bristol Rovers.
A hidden agenda? I'd love to have a hidden agenda. I'd love to have a hidden beer gut, but they both keep spilling out.
Percinho has his tuppennyworth in the comments, on Pulis's apparent belief that using set pieces to score from is some kind of innovation. Really? You think that it's never crossed anyone's mind before? You think managers have never before considered the option that if they have a corner or free kick near the edge of the area then there's a decent chance that it could result in a scoring opportunity?
Graham Taylor, meanwhile, says this. Some of the top clubs in my time did not work that much at restarts. The better the players the more they tend to leave it to the players. But, if we look and see how often the ball is out of play, it seems crazy if you are not working on restarts. If the very top clubs put their minds to it, I would not say that they would be more successful, but they would score more goals.
How can they score more goals and not be more successful? How, other than in goals scored vs goals conceded, is success measured? The only way teams could score more goals without having more success would be if they also conceded more. Is there any reason why practising set pieces should make you concede? If so, he fails to spell it out. This is just gibberish.
If only they'd asked Gary Johnson (we love him), we might have learnt something. But Johnson manages in the Championship, not the Premiership, and falls below their radar. It's sometimes remarked how little impact he makes on the national scene when you consider his stellar achievements. All I can say is, I'm doing my bit.
It's not an uninteresting question, and I did make a spreadsheet. Alas, my hopes of a frenzied orgy of detailed statistical analysis were frustrated by a simple lack of data. A mere month into the season, with a grand total of 127 goals scored so far, there just isn't enough to work yourself up into a decent lather over.
Instead, let's all just laugh at the idiots involved, purely so we can all feel superior. Not the author, one Stuart James, who seems to have done a decent enough job with a dismal brief, namely to draw some drastic conclusions from a short-lived statistical blip before it regresses to the mean. No, I refer to the expert help.
First up to the plate, Stoke manager Tony Pulis. I think people are now coming to realise that you can use set-pieces to your benefit, he said, especially the top clubs who have got more quality players - that means more quality corner kicks and free-kicks.
Yes, Tony, except that the data they've given you to look at quite clearly shows the opposite. In fact, the top clubs are scoring a higher percentage of their goals from open play. The five most set piece-oriented clubs are on average thirteenth, whilst the top five have a set play average of only 30%. You are, exactly, wrong. Just like when you decided you wanted to play for Bristol Rovers.
A hidden agenda? I'd love to have a hidden agenda. I'd love to have a hidden beer gut, but they both keep spilling out.
Percinho has his tuppennyworth in the comments, on Pulis's apparent belief that using set pieces to score from is some kind of innovation. Really? You think that it's never crossed anyone's mind before? You think managers have never before considered the option that if they have a corner or free kick near the edge of the area then there's a decent chance that it could result in a scoring opportunity?
Graham Taylor, meanwhile, says this. Some of the top clubs in my time did not work that much at restarts. The better the players the more they tend to leave it to the players. But, if we look and see how often the ball is out of play, it seems crazy if you are not working on restarts. If the very top clubs put their minds to it, I would not say that they would be more successful, but they would score more goals.
How can they score more goals and not be more successful? How, other than in goals scored vs goals conceded, is success measured? The only way teams could score more goals without having more success would be if they also conceded more. Is there any reason why practising set pieces should make you concede? If so, he fails to spell it out. This is just gibberish.
If only they'd asked Gary Johnson (we love him), we might have learnt something. But Johnson manages in the Championship, not the Premiership, and falls below their radar. It's sometimes remarked how little impact he makes on the national scene when you consider his stellar achievements. All I can say is, I'm doing my bit.
Thursday, 17 September 2009
How it all works part two - the Champions League
I said I'd do some posts explaining the facts of footballing life to the newbies. It was suggested to me that everyone who wants to know these things already does. I think some people are failing to grasp my powers of persuasion.
This is number two in an indefinite series. I can't tell how many posts there will be, because I can't begin to imagine all the things you don't know, but I can guarantee that it will be a natural number. There will be not be a negative number of posts, nor will there ever be half a post, ninety two ninety fifths of a post, pi posts or the square root of minus one posts. Surely that's precision enough?
In the first post, I talked you through the English league structure. I know I promised you something about the Football Association, but I'm saving that one for the FA Cup proper. This time, we're talking about the Champions League.
The Champions League is a tournament played between teams from across Europe. For footballing purposes Europe includes Israel, whose immediate neighbours might not be too keen if they dropped in for a quick kickabout, and stretches as far as Kazakhstan. You may recall England travelling there for a game a few months ago. The main European leagues, outside the Premiership, are Spain, Italy and Germany, in that order.
Each member state of UEFA, the governing body of European football, gets to submit some teams to the Champions League every year. England sends four teams, as do Spain and Italy, while Germany submit three. Some teams have to join the qualifying rounds, while others go straight through to the group stage.
In the last two years, Premiership teams have dominated. In the 2007-2008 season, no English team was knocked out by a foreign one. Liverpool knocked out Arsenal in the quarter finals, Chelsea knocked out Liverpool in the semis and Man Utd beat Chelsea on penalties in the final in Moscow. Any sense of English triumphalism swiftly faded when the focus moved to the European Championship, a competition of national teams that England had failed to qualify for, but then the most successful English club teams have been using mainly foreign players for years.
Last season everything was following the same pattern, with three English teams in the last four, until Barcelona beat Chelsea with a last-minute goal in the semi-finals and demolished Man United in the final. Of course, all the hacks immediately started talking about a new era of Spanish domination. We'll see about that this year, I think.
The group stage started this week, with games on Tuesday and Wednesday. Here is the BBC page on European Football. For your convenience, here are links to the Group Stage Tables, Fixtures and Results. Service or what, eh?
You can see that each English team won their first game. Liverpool won 1-0 at home against Debrecen (the second largest city in Hungary - who knew?), while Chelsea beat Porto at home and Man Utd beat Besiktas in Istanbul, also both 1-0. These results perhaps say something about the early stages of the tournament, which is that 1-0 is enough. There's really not much point doing yourself in for goal difference when you're going through anyway, and you've all got Premiership games at the weekend. Some teams had a break for international week, but most of the Big Four's players are internationals and had two games rather than none. Knock it about and play out time, they must think, save your puff for Saturday.
Arsenal had a slightly tougher time of it, going 2-0 down to Standard Liege before coming back to win 3-2. It seems highly unlikely that any of the English teams will fail to progress.
Progression in this case is to the knockout stage. The top two in each group go through to the final sixteen, where each group winner is matched against a team that finished second in a different group. Each tie is played over two legs, with the usual away goals rule, yada yada yada. The eight winners play each other to reduce to four, then two, then there's a single game for the final.
I'm feeling rather ashamed of my complete ignorance of the fair city of Debrecen, so I'm going to take out my embarrassment on you by telling you all about it. It has a population of 205,000, and lies in the great plain on the east side of Hungary. Good football territory, plains. In its many centuries it has been governed by the Holy Roman Empire, the Ottomans, the Serbs, the Austro-Hungarians and many others, although unlike some unfortunate places in that area it seems never to have been seized by the Bulgars.
As well as the football team, it is famous for its university, and the Calvinist Great Church. It even has its own Debrecen Flickr group. And now, it's famous for being in my blog. So there.
More European football soon.
This is number two in an indefinite series. I can't tell how many posts there will be, because I can't begin to imagine all the things you don't know, but I can guarantee that it will be a natural number. There will be not be a negative number of posts, nor will there ever be half a post, ninety two ninety fifths of a post, pi posts or the square root of minus one posts. Surely that's precision enough?
In the first post, I talked you through the English league structure. I know I promised you something about the Football Association, but I'm saving that one for the FA Cup proper. This time, we're talking about the Champions League.
The Champions League is a tournament played between teams from across Europe. For footballing purposes Europe includes Israel, whose immediate neighbours might not be too keen if they dropped in for a quick kickabout, and stretches as far as Kazakhstan. You may recall England travelling there for a game a few months ago. The main European leagues, outside the Premiership, are Spain, Italy and Germany, in that order.
Each member state of UEFA, the governing body of European football, gets to submit some teams to the Champions League every year. England sends four teams, as do Spain and Italy, while Germany submit three. Some teams have to join the qualifying rounds, while others go straight through to the group stage.
In the last two years, Premiership teams have dominated. In the 2007-2008 season, no English team was knocked out by a foreign one. Liverpool knocked out Arsenal in the quarter finals, Chelsea knocked out Liverpool in the semis and Man Utd beat Chelsea on penalties in the final in Moscow. Any sense of English triumphalism swiftly faded when the focus moved to the European Championship, a competition of national teams that England had failed to qualify for, but then the most successful English club teams have been using mainly foreign players for years.
Last season everything was following the same pattern, with three English teams in the last four, until Barcelona beat Chelsea with a last-minute goal in the semi-finals and demolished Man United in the final. Of course, all the hacks immediately started talking about a new era of Spanish domination. We'll see about that this year, I think.
The group stage started this week, with games on Tuesday and Wednesday. Here is the BBC page on European Football. For your convenience, here are links to the Group Stage Tables, Fixtures and Results. Service or what, eh?
You can see that each English team won their first game. Liverpool won 1-0 at home against Debrecen (the second largest city in Hungary - who knew?), while Chelsea beat Porto at home and Man Utd beat Besiktas in Istanbul, also both 1-0. These results perhaps say something about the early stages of the tournament, which is that 1-0 is enough. There's really not much point doing yourself in for goal difference when you're going through anyway, and you've all got Premiership games at the weekend. Some teams had a break for international week, but most of the Big Four's players are internationals and had two games rather than none. Knock it about and play out time, they must think, save your puff for Saturday.
Arsenal had a slightly tougher time of it, going 2-0 down to Standard Liege before coming back to win 3-2. It seems highly unlikely that any of the English teams will fail to progress.
Progression in this case is to the knockout stage. The top two in each group go through to the final sixteen, where each group winner is matched against a team that finished second in a different group. Each tie is played over two legs, with the usual away goals rule, yada yada yada. The eight winners play each other to reduce to four, then two, then there's a single game for the final.
I'm feeling rather ashamed of my complete ignorance of the fair city of Debrecen, so I'm going to take out my embarrassment on you by telling you all about it. It has a population of 205,000, and lies in the great plain on the east side of Hungary. Good football territory, plains. In its many centuries it has been governed by the Holy Roman Empire, the Ottomans, the Serbs, the Austro-Hungarians and many others, although unlike some unfortunate places in that area it seems never to have been seized by the Bulgars.
As well as the football team, it is famous for its university, and the Calvinist Great Church. It even has its own Debrecen Flickr group. And now, it's famous for being in my blog. So there.
More European football soon.
Sunday, 13 September 2009
A lesser league altogether
League One, that is. Ludicrously named (until 1992 it was the Third Division), it sits below the Championship (the old Second Division), from whom it takes the worst three teams every year. In return it sends its best three teams, a seemingly inequitable exchange which in fact ensures a rough consistency year on year.
The runaway leaders this season, and the two best candidates for promotion, are Charlton and Leeds. Leeds are my childhood team, a concept which may need some elaboration.
I grew up in a small town just outside Coventry, and was therefore left with a choice between supporting the Coventry team or choosing another club I had no chance of actually seeing. Unsurprisingly, I chose the lattter. I know it's considered more authentic somehow to stick with your local team, but extending that to the point of making someone support Coventry is surely both cruel and from a demographic point of view rather unusual.
I chose Leeds because they were the top team, as young boys have been doing since time immemorial. It's customary these days to mock them in their Chelsea and Man United shirts, and some view the practice as a modern corruption of the ancient spirit of football, but many supposedly recent and unwholesome innovations turn out to have a longer history than you might think.
So there I am, in the mid Seventies, committing my first offence against real fans. Happy memories. It was the era of Bremner and Lorimer, so when The Damned United came out recently it was a riveting read for me. They were, shall we say, an uncompromising team, with a direct physical approach based on kicking other teams out of the game. Their most notorious defender, Norman Hunter, had the nickname Bites Yer Legs, which gives you an idea of their footballing philosophy. If ever you hear some fool on the telly talking about football being a man's game, or a contact sport, you've met a spiritual descendant of that Leeds side. At a time when Italian teams were perfecting the catenaccio, or door-bolt, Leeds preferred the short stabbing sword.
For this reason and others they were the team everybody loved to hate, which was another reason why I liked them. Things turned sour in the mid-nineties though. Like many clubs before and since, they spent big to buy success, didn't get the results on the pitch and ended up mired in debt. Since then they've been relegated twice and now they find themselves in their third season in League One.
Because their last relegation happened the same season City got promoted, the two teams haven't actually played. If they did, I'd be for City. It's the team I see every week. Leeds are still my second team, though, and I remember the frustration of watching them lose the 2007 League One playoff final to Doncaster, the day after City lost the Championship one to Hull. To lose one final is the normal lot of the fan, to lose two in two days is establishing a pattern. In fact Leeds and City between them have been in six playoffs in recent years, without winning once.
Unlike Bristol Rovers, who won the League Two playoffs in 2006 to get back into League One, where they now sit in a highly unlikely third place. It won't last, there's much better teams chasing them, but it's still galling just on general principles. It's still a shit league, though.
Let's just restate that, for the sake of clarity. Rovers are third, but only in a shit league. And they had to get promoted to get into that one. Imagine what a shit league they used to be in. Leeds, on the other hand, are second. In a shit league, but still second. Which unlike third is good enough to get you into a better one.
I believe I've made myself clear.
The runaway leaders this season, and the two best candidates for promotion, are Charlton and Leeds. Leeds are my childhood team, a concept which may need some elaboration.
I grew up in a small town just outside Coventry, and was therefore left with a choice between supporting the Coventry team or choosing another club I had no chance of actually seeing. Unsurprisingly, I chose the lattter. I know it's considered more authentic somehow to stick with your local team, but extending that to the point of making someone support Coventry is surely both cruel and from a demographic point of view rather unusual.
I chose Leeds because they were the top team, as young boys have been doing since time immemorial. It's customary these days to mock them in their Chelsea and Man United shirts, and some view the practice as a modern corruption of the ancient spirit of football, but many supposedly recent and unwholesome innovations turn out to have a longer history than you might think.
So there I am, in the mid Seventies, committing my first offence against real fans. Happy memories. It was the era of Bremner and Lorimer, so when The Damned United came out recently it was a riveting read for me. They were, shall we say, an uncompromising team, with a direct physical approach based on kicking other teams out of the game. Their most notorious defender, Norman Hunter, had the nickname Bites Yer Legs, which gives you an idea of their footballing philosophy. If ever you hear some fool on the telly talking about football being a man's game, or a contact sport, you've met a spiritual descendant of that Leeds side. At a time when Italian teams were perfecting the catenaccio, or door-bolt, Leeds preferred the short stabbing sword.
For this reason and others they were the team everybody loved to hate, which was another reason why I liked them. Things turned sour in the mid-nineties though. Like many clubs before and since, they spent big to buy success, didn't get the results on the pitch and ended up mired in debt. Since then they've been relegated twice and now they find themselves in their third season in League One.
Because their last relegation happened the same season City got promoted, the two teams haven't actually played. If they did, I'd be for City. It's the team I see every week. Leeds are still my second team, though, and I remember the frustration of watching them lose the 2007 League One playoff final to Doncaster, the day after City lost the Championship one to Hull. To lose one final is the normal lot of the fan, to lose two in two days is establishing a pattern. In fact Leeds and City between them have been in six playoffs in recent years, without winning once.
Unlike Bristol Rovers, who won the League Two playoffs in 2006 to get back into League One, where they now sit in a highly unlikely third place. It won't last, there's much better teams chasing them, but it's still galling just on general principles. It's still a shit league, though.
Let's just restate that, for the sake of clarity. Rovers are third, but only in a shit league. And they had to get promoted to get into that one. Imagine what a shit league they used to be in. Leeds, on the other hand, are second. In a shit league, but still second. Which unlike third is good enough to get you into a better one.
I believe I've made myself clear.
Wednesday, 9 September 2009
Turned out nice again
Well it did, didn't it?
All my permutations went by the board as England decided to just wipe the floor with Croatia instead (England 5-1 Croatia). I managed to get out of work in time to watch the last half hour in the pub, so I got the gist of it. GIST in Mock the Week terms standing for Glorious Ingerland Surprise Tout-le-monde. Or possibly Gerrard Is Starting To.
It's a bit premature to be talking about winning the World Cup (Spain and Holland have won all their eight games too), but barring the unforeseen England will at least be there. When I say the unforeseen, I'm not talking about late goal flurries in eastern Europe any more. I'm talking about asteroid impacts, the global collapse of the entire concept of the nation state or sudden dramatic changes to the laws of physics. Unless football itself is snatched away from us by the vicissitudes of fate, England are on their way.
Scotland definitely aren't though. For the second tournament in a row, they've fallen just short after a valiant effort against a top team (Scotland 0-1 Holland). Last time it was Italy, this time it was Holland. An eighty second minute goal gave Norway second place in Group Nine, and broke Scottish hearts.
It starts to get a little old, frankly. The last time a Scot came out on top against the odds it was Renton in Trainspotting. Begbie's their more usual role model, snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. The Flower of Scotland? Has to be a thistle.
Group Nine has finished early, but the teams in all the other groups have one or two games left. And there may be some shock exits. Portugal, the Czech Republic, Germany, Croatia and France could all miss out.
As do Wales and Northern Ireland. Wales are definitely out after losing to Russia, whilst Northern Ireland have to win in Prague and hope that Slovenia can't beat San Marino. An asteroid impact is more likely, and would in any case be of little help. Northern Ireland would simply have to cope with the global devastation, without any World Cup football to console them. Ireland the actual country should finish second in their group though, so their non-qualifying cousins north of the border must surely be looking into fast track reunification as their best hope.
The final games are played on Saturday October 10 and Wednesday October 14. Not that we care.
All my permutations went by the board as England decided to just wipe the floor with Croatia instead (England 5-1 Croatia). I managed to get out of work in time to watch the last half hour in the pub, so I got the gist of it. GIST in Mock the Week terms standing for Glorious Ingerland Surprise Tout-le-monde. Or possibly Gerrard Is Starting To.
It's a bit premature to be talking about winning the World Cup (Spain and Holland have won all their eight games too), but barring the unforeseen England will at least be there. When I say the unforeseen, I'm not talking about late goal flurries in eastern Europe any more. I'm talking about asteroid impacts, the global collapse of the entire concept of the nation state or sudden dramatic changes to the laws of physics. Unless football itself is snatched away from us by the vicissitudes of fate, England are on their way.
Scotland definitely aren't though. For the second tournament in a row, they've fallen just short after a valiant effort against a top team (Scotland 0-1 Holland). Last time it was Italy, this time it was Holland. An eighty second minute goal gave Norway second place in Group Nine, and broke Scottish hearts.
It starts to get a little old, frankly. The last time a Scot came out on top against the odds it was Renton in Trainspotting. Begbie's their more usual role model, snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. The Flower of Scotland? Has to be a thistle.
Group Nine has finished early, but the teams in all the other groups have one or two games left. And there may be some shock exits. Portugal, the Czech Republic, Germany, Croatia and France could all miss out.
As do Wales and Northern Ireland. Wales are definitely out after losing to Russia, whilst Northern Ireland have to win in Prague and hope that Slovenia can't beat San Marino. An asteroid impact is more likely, and would in any case be of little help. Northern Ireland would simply have to cope with the global devastation, without any World Cup football to console them. Ireland the actual country should finish second in their group though, so their non-qualifying cousins north of the border must surely be looking into fast track reunification as their best hope.
The final games are played on Saturday October 10 and Wednesday October 14. Not that we care.
Just a quick one
Which under the circumstances is probably all for the best. Thanks to Jeff for the link.
England tonight
I was thinking about trying a live blog for tonight's game, like they do in the Guardian, but I'm working so I can't. To make up for it, here's a summary of what we have to do to qualify.
Oh yes, I was forgetting my demographic. In the game where they kick round things about, teams made from players born in particular countries often play each other. Sometimes, teams from countries from all over the world get together and play lots of times in a short while. This is called a World Cup. The next World Cup is in June 2010, and the games I'm writing about now are to pick the 32 countries that go.
The current group tables are here (World Cup 2010 Qualifying Tables). England (we means England today) are in Group 6. The qualification process is admirably explained by the BBC.
The nine European group winners qualify automatically for the 2010 World Cup in South Africa. The eight best runners-up go into four two-legged play-off matches (on 14 and 18 November) with the winner of each tie also qualifying. As Group 9 has only five teams (the other groups have six), the eight best runners-up will be judged after expunging results against the bottom-placed team in each group.
Clear? You can safely ignore the last sentence, although I couldn't help noticing that if one more country broke into two there wouldn't be a problem any more. Belgium, perhaps. Let's face it, it's not the most settled country in the world, and it's not like they ever qualify these days anyway.
They could so easily be two countries, called Flanders and Wallonia. They've even got regional assemblies already set up, it wouldn't be any trouble. Selfish, I call it.
Not that we care. We've already amassed enough points to beat the second placed teams in Groups Three and Nine, anyway, so whoever the Belgians are deliberately spiting with their One Nation nonsense, it isn't us. In fact we've won all our first seven games, an achievement matched only by Spain and Holland.
We have three games left. We play Croatia at home tonight, then Ukraine away on Saturday October 10, then Belarus at home on Wednesday October 14. The permutations are as follows.
We're guaranteed third. If we win any single game, or draw against both Croatia and Ukraine, we're guaranteed to finish top and qualify. This is because we've beaten Croatia and Ukraine once already, and those two nations did us the great favour of drawing against each other twice.
A single draw against Croatia or Ukraine, and a loss in the other two games, leaves us second. This would mean a playoff against another second place team. If England draw tonight and Ukraine fail to win their game in Belarus, we're top.
In fact, it's very unlikely we won't finish top. All the top three teams have beaten Belarus every time they've played them so far, so even if we lost to Croatia and Ukraine we'd probably win the last game, and one win is all we need.
And an England win in three hours time makes it all irrelevant. Book your seats for Johannesburg now is my advice.
Oh yes, I was forgetting my demographic. In the game where they kick round things about, teams made from players born in particular countries often play each other. Sometimes, teams from countries from all over the world get together and play lots of times in a short while. This is called a World Cup. The next World Cup is in June 2010, and the games I'm writing about now are to pick the 32 countries that go.
The current group tables are here (World Cup 2010 Qualifying Tables). England (we means England today) are in Group 6. The qualification process is admirably explained by the BBC.
The nine European group winners qualify automatically for the 2010 World Cup in South Africa. The eight best runners-up go into four two-legged play-off matches (on 14 and 18 November) with the winner of each tie also qualifying. As Group 9 has only five teams (the other groups have six), the eight best runners-up will be judged after expunging results against the bottom-placed team in each group.
Clear? You can safely ignore the last sentence, although I couldn't help noticing that if one more country broke into two there wouldn't be a problem any more. Belgium, perhaps. Let's face it, it's not the most settled country in the world, and it's not like they ever qualify these days anyway.
They could so easily be two countries, called Flanders and Wallonia. They've even got regional assemblies already set up, it wouldn't be any trouble. Selfish, I call it.
Not that we care. We've already amassed enough points to beat the second placed teams in Groups Three and Nine, anyway, so whoever the Belgians are deliberately spiting with their One Nation nonsense, it isn't us. In fact we've won all our first seven games, an achievement matched only by Spain and Holland.
We have three games left. We play Croatia at home tonight, then Ukraine away on Saturday October 10, then Belarus at home on Wednesday October 14. The permutations are as follows.
We're guaranteed third. If we win any single game, or draw against both Croatia and Ukraine, we're guaranteed to finish top and qualify. This is because we've beaten Croatia and Ukraine once already, and those two nations did us the great favour of drawing against each other twice.
A single draw against Croatia or Ukraine, and a loss in the other two games, leaves us second. This would mean a playoff against another second place team. If England draw tonight and Ukraine fail to win their game in Belarus, we're top.
In fact, it's very unlikely we won't finish top. All the top three teams have beaten Belarus every time they've played them so far, so even if we lost to Croatia and Ukraine we'd probably win the last game, and one win is all we need.
And an England win in three hours time makes it all irrelevant. Book your seats for Johannesburg now is my advice.
Sunday, 6 September 2009
I want to go back to the seaside
Home again! It's not as good as the seaside though.
Did you know that since we left Africa, we've nearly always lived by the sea? The evidence shows us spreading out along the coastlines of Asia, Africa and Europe, but not heading inland until comparatively recent times.
Once we hit the beach we moved quite slowly, it seems. In fact humanity inched along the shoreline at the rate of a mile a year. We could have stepped it up a bit, but we probably just didn't want to get cut off by the tide.
I developed this theory on Friday, after we walked a mile from Saundersfoot towards Tenby, and had to come back through the woods. Which were muddy, a lesson early humans probably also learnt. People are forever telling you the countryside is cleaner, but if you look closely you'll see it's actually made of billions and billions of tons of mud, with a thin covering of green to trick you into going in it.
The seaside, on the other hand, is mainly made of solid rock and dry, brushable sand, which accounts for much of its appeal. More importantly for our hunting and gathering ancestors, who were probably able to get a little bit of mud on them without people going on, it offers three distinct ecologies to plunder - the sea itself, the immediate hinterland and the coastline. They could hunt rabbit, catch mackerel and gather mussels off the rock, and if they were really stuck they could always eat vegetables.
After we'd expanded round the world population pressures drove us inland, where we acquired the skills necessary to survive without seafood, but we've always preferred the coast. I know I do. Thanks to Mel for her excellent hospitality, as ever, and thanks to her son-in-law for having an Australian themed restaurant. Bonzer, or something.
There was a good cartoon in the paper to help me through my maritime blues. It showed a newsagent with the new Chelsea team calendar. For 2011.
For Chelsea have been naughty boys, and UEFA have sent them to bed without any presents. In particular they've been convicted of an illegal approach to Gael Kakuta, then of Lens, two years ago. Now they're banned from signing any new players until January 2011. They can still sell players, but won't want to. Contract negotiations over the next year may perhaps be a little fraught.
Because the transfer window has just closed no other teams can sign anyone until January 2010 anyway, so it's only a year lost, but if they lose a few players to injury they'll be screwed.
It's something of a blow for a wealthy club, who have become used to big name signings paid for by their owner, Russian oil gangster Tony Sopranovich. To which I can only say, in what seems to becoming my phrase of the season, ha bloody ha.
Did you know that since we left Africa, we've nearly always lived by the sea? The evidence shows us spreading out along the coastlines of Asia, Africa and Europe, but not heading inland until comparatively recent times.
Once we hit the beach we moved quite slowly, it seems. In fact humanity inched along the shoreline at the rate of a mile a year. We could have stepped it up a bit, but we probably just didn't want to get cut off by the tide.
I developed this theory on Friday, after we walked a mile from Saundersfoot towards Tenby, and had to come back through the woods. Which were muddy, a lesson early humans probably also learnt. People are forever telling you the countryside is cleaner, but if you look closely you'll see it's actually made of billions and billions of tons of mud, with a thin covering of green to trick you into going in it.
The seaside, on the other hand, is mainly made of solid rock and dry, brushable sand, which accounts for much of its appeal. More importantly for our hunting and gathering ancestors, who were probably able to get a little bit of mud on them without people going on, it offers three distinct ecologies to plunder - the sea itself, the immediate hinterland and the coastline. They could hunt rabbit, catch mackerel and gather mussels off the rock, and if they were really stuck they could always eat vegetables.
After we'd expanded round the world population pressures drove us inland, where we acquired the skills necessary to survive without seafood, but we've always preferred the coast. I know I do. Thanks to Mel for her excellent hospitality, as ever, and thanks to her son-in-law for having an Australian themed restaurant. Bonzer, or something.
There was a good cartoon in the paper to help me through my maritime blues. It showed a newsagent with the new Chelsea team calendar. For 2011.
For Chelsea have been naughty boys, and UEFA have sent them to bed without any presents. In particular they've been convicted of an illegal approach to Gael Kakuta, then of Lens, two years ago. Now they're banned from signing any new players until January 2011. They can still sell players, but won't want to. Contract negotiations over the next year may perhaps be a little fraught.
Because the transfer window has just closed no other teams can sign anyone until January 2010 anyway, so it's only a year lost, but if they lose a few players to injury they'll be screwed.
It's something of a blow for a wealthy club, who have become used to big name signings paid for by their owner, Russian oil gangster Tony Sopranovich. To which I can only say, in what seems to becoming my phrase of the season, ha bloody ha.
Tuesday, 1 September 2009
Holiday
I'm off to Tenby in Wales tomorrow, and won't be back until Sunday. Just to keep us ticking over, are there any subjects you'd like me to write about? If so, add them to the comments.
I may get to post while I'm away, as well. The last time I was in Tenby though, the pub landlord changed channels during a perfectly good Premiership game, so he could watch the rugby. Apparently in Wales this isn't considered weird. I'm not normally very keen on globalisation, but there are times when I think it hasn't gone far enough.
There's not a lot of football on anyway, because it's an international weekend and England aren't playing. Except for a friendly against Slovenia on Saturday.
Some people (not you, obviously, you're better informed on such matters, but some people) confuse Slovenia and Slovakia. They may even think they're the same place, but frequently misspelt. Fortunately, I'm here to resolve that kind of confusion.
Slovenia used to be in Yugoslavia. It was the first part to declare its independence, in 1991, and thus avoided the bloodshed which followed. Slovakia split from Czechoslovakia in 1993, also bloodlessly. The Czech part became the Czech Republic, but what happened to the poor old O's history fails to record.
I don't suppose there's another football blog that will fill you in on those salient facts. So when you're choosing who to follow, just remember where you got patronised first.
I may get to post while I'm away, as well. The last time I was in Tenby though, the pub landlord changed channels during a perfectly good Premiership game, so he could watch the rugby. Apparently in Wales this isn't considered weird. I'm not normally very keen on globalisation, but there are times when I think it hasn't gone far enough.
There's not a lot of football on anyway, because it's an international weekend and England aren't playing. Except for a friendly against Slovenia on Saturday.
Some people (not you, obviously, you're better informed on such matters, but some people) confuse Slovenia and Slovakia. They may even think they're the same place, but frequently misspelt. Fortunately, I'm here to resolve that kind of confusion.
Slovenia used to be in Yugoslavia. It was the first part to declare its independence, in 1991, and thus avoided the bloodshed which followed. Slovakia split from Czechoslovakia in 1993, also bloodlessly. The Czech part became the Czech Republic, but what happened to the poor old O's history fails to record.
I don't suppose there's another football blog that will fill you in on those salient facts. So when you're choosing who to follow, just remember where you got patronised first.
Sunday, 30 August 2009
Reasons to be cheerful (again)
Number thirty seven: the last minute winner (Bristol City 2-1 Middlesbrough).
After a bad week, losing 3-0 to Cardiff last Sunday and then 2-0 at home to bloody Carlisle in the League Cup on Wednesday, no-one had much hope for this one. How typical of City to come up with their best result of the year.
Middlesbrough are one of this season's tips for promotion, but then fairly much everyone has tipped the three sides who came down last season - Middlesbrough, Newcastle and West Brom. This happens every year.
But look who went up last season. Birmingham, one of the previously relegated teams, but also Wolves, and unfancied Burnley. The season before, Hull did it (at our expense). Which just shows, there's often a team that sneaks into the playoffs, puts three good games together and finds themselves going up. Frankly, you'd tip Sheffield United or Cardiff before you tipped us, but then you'd have tipped them before Burnley or Hull too. Stranger things have happened, is all I'm saying.
All the goals yesterday came in the last half hour. Nicky Maynard got onto a loose ball in the box at the same moment as the defender. With his greater cojones he came away with the ball, leaving his opponent noticeably shrivelled and deflated in his wake, and curled it round the keeper half a second before their covering back caught up with it.
I don't know what the matter was with the Middlesbrough defence, but Maynard, Haynes and Akinde were stronger, faster and more determined all afternoon, and several times won balls they were second best for. For some reason having your team do that to the other team boosts your own masculine powers, and I've been walking around in a haze of my own testosterone ever since. If I jumped in the river the oestrogen in our effluence would be neutralised, and the fish population would suddenly be at it like we'd never invented washing powder. Until you threw in a Middlesbrough fan, at which point they'd lose all interest.
A dubious penalty decision made it one-all, and in the stands our usual flaccidity returned, but then in injury time Maynard did it again. He got onto a long ball over the top by the simple expedient of running faster than anyone on the other team and just knocked it in from the edge of the box. Simple but brilliant, like Jonathan Richman in that respect and no other. In fact I'm not quite sure why I'm even mentioning him, although Maynard was going faster miles an hour.
That's now five in six games for him, and he really does seem to be finally coming into his own after a distinctly average season last year. It's about time we had someone like that.
It was back to Dave's afterwards, for tea, toast and Man Utd v Arsenal. Man Utd won 2-1 as well, with a penalty and an own goal against Arshavin's excellent effort just before halftime. If good goals counted double we'd have won 4-1 and Arsenal would have a draw, but unfortunately football is run by accountants, and poetry isn't a factor.
The most remarkable moment in the game came right at the end. An Arsenal goal was (correctly) ruled out for offside, Arsene Wenger kicked a water bottle in frustration and the referee rather harshly sent him off. Not knowing (or pretending not to know) where he was supposed to go, Wenger ended up climbing onto what appeared to be a podium behind the dugout.
He was now surrounded by hundreds of United fans, who grasped the opportunity fate had offered them and hurled abuse at him from a few feet, while Wenger just stood there like a cross between Jesus at Calvary and the worst contestant in the X-Factor. It made you weep for our times, but then many of the best moments in football do.
After a bad week, losing 3-0 to Cardiff last Sunday and then 2-0 at home to bloody Carlisle in the League Cup on Wednesday, no-one had much hope for this one. How typical of City to come up with their best result of the year.
Middlesbrough are one of this season's tips for promotion, but then fairly much everyone has tipped the three sides who came down last season - Middlesbrough, Newcastle and West Brom. This happens every year.
But look who went up last season. Birmingham, one of the previously relegated teams, but also Wolves, and unfancied Burnley. The season before, Hull did it (at our expense). Which just shows, there's often a team that sneaks into the playoffs, puts three good games together and finds themselves going up. Frankly, you'd tip Sheffield United or Cardiff before you tipped us, but then you'd have tipped them before Burnley or Hull too. Stranger things have happened, is all I'm saying.
All the goals yesterday came in the last half hour. Nicky Maynard got onto a loose ball in the box at the same moment as the defender. With his greater cojones he came away with the ball, leaving his opponent noticeably shrivelled and deflated in his wake, and curled it round the keeper half a second before their covering back caught up with it.
I don't know what the matter was with the Middlesbrough defence, but Maynard, Haynes and Akinde were stronger, faster and more determined all afternoon, and several times won balls they were second best for. For some reason having your team do that to the other team boosts your own masculine powers, and I've been walking around in a haze of my own testosterone ever since. If I jumped in the river the oestrogen in our effluence would be neutralised, and the fish population would suddenly be at it like we'd never invented washing powder. Until you threw in a Middlesbrough fan, at which point they'd lose all interest.
A dubious penalty decision made it one-all, and in the stands our usual flaccidity returned, but then in injury time Maynard did it again. He got onto a long ball over the top by the simple expedient of running faster than anyone on the other team and just knocked it in from the edge of the box. Simple but brilliant, like Jonathan Richman in that respect and no other. In fact I'm not quite sure why I'm even mentioning him, although Maynard was going faster miles an hour.
That's now five in six games for him, and he really does seem to be finally coming into his own after a distinctly average season last year. It's about time we had someone like that.
It was back to Dave's afterwards, for tea, toast and Man Utd v Arsenal. Man Utd won 2-1 as well, with a penalty and an own goal against Arshavin's excellent effort just before halftime. If good goals counted double we'd have won 4-1 and Arsenal would have a draw, but unfortunately football is run by accountants, and poetry isn't a factor.
The most remarkable moment in the game came right at the end. An Arsenal goal was (correctly) ruled out for offside, Arsene Wenger kicked a water bottle in frustration and the referee rather harshly sent him off. Not knowing (or pretending not to know) where he was supposed to go, Wenger ended up climbing onto what appeared to be a podium behind the dugout.
He was now surrounded by hundreds of United fans, who grasped the opportunity fate had offered them and hurled abuse at him from a few feet, while Wenger just stood there like a cross between Jesus at Calvary and the worst contestant in the X-Factor. It made you weep for our times, but then many of the best moments in football do.
Saturday, 29 August 2009
UEFA Super Cup
You have to appreciate every game on its merits. Some games are goal fests. Some have heartstopping goalmouth scrambles from the first minute to the last. And then there are games like Barcelona v Shakhtar Donetsk, the UEFA Super Cup final in Monaco last night.
But the absence of any particular virtue isn't in itself a vice. Think of a great orchestra, ripping into one of Shostakovich's denser passages. Half the thrill comes from the fact that every ounce of energy comes from unassisted musclepower, from the kettledrum-banging forearms at the back via the bassoon-honed lungs in the midsection and the cello-gripping thighs at the front, while the conductor coaxes sublimity out of their very ATP like the foreman on a pyramid-building chain gang. I've gone all goosepimply just picturing it.
Yet the reverse isn't the case. Just because some musicians swap thighs and forearms for amps and sequencers, it doesn't follow that their work is somehow discredited, whatever the awful bearded man at that fearful disco in the Potteries may have said in 1979.
Just think what it would mean if the absence of individual virtues was indeed a vice. Apart from anything, no product of the creative imagination could possibly encompass more than a minute fraction of the Hilbertian space of possible virtues, so every cultural artefact would be a suppurating mass of moral degeneration, rather than just the best ones. So let it be with football.
Oh yes, the football. Not a great game, as I may or may not have remembered to imply, but I enjoyed it. Barcelona won it 1-0, scoring a few minutes before the end of extra time, for which Shakhtar deserve great credit. Yes I did mean that. Tell me, could you stop a team like Barcelona scoring for nearly two hours?
Let's just stop a moment and consider their achievement. They had no more players than Barcelona did. The ball is regularly shaped, and specifically designed to travel long distances quickly when kicked hard. The goal is many times bigger than the ball is, and only one of them was allowed to block it with his hands.
The people trying to put it in the net had names like Messi, Henry and Puyol. They had to mostly use their feet as well, but it hardly seemed to inconvenience them at all. One imagines them walking on their hands round supermarkets, backheeling pork chops off the shelf and into the trolley, where they land right way up, nestled between the Sancerre and the prosciutto.
Yet not only did Shakhtar hold them off for 115 minutes, they actually got down the other end to have some shots on goal themselves. This is akin to the Iraqi resistance not only surviving the surge but making it all the way to Washington and having a surge of their own.
When the goal came it was like billiards played in a particle accelerator. Pedro to Messi, Messi back to Pedro through a dimension we didn't know existed, Pedro to the back of the net. You could have wept for Shakhtar, after all their valiant efforts, but I was thrilled even if they weren't.
Tomorrow, Middlesbrough come to Bristol, then it's Man United v Arsenal on the telly. To be honest, I just can't help watching people kick balls around. If you were doing it now I'd probably be transfixed. Fortunately, there usually seems to be enough to watch.
But the absence of any particular virtue isn't in itself a vice. Think of a great orchestra, ripping into one of Shostakovich's denser passages. Half the thrill comes from the fact that every ounce of energy comes from unassisted musclepower, from the kettledrum-banging forearms at the back via the bassoon-honed lungs in the midsection and the cello-gripping thighs at the front, while the conductor coaxes sublimity out of their very ATP like the foreman on a pyramid-building chain gang. I've gone all goosepimply just picturing it.
Yet the reverse isn't the case. Just because some musicians swap thighs and forearms for amps and sequencers, it doesn't follow that their work is somehow discredited, whatever the awful bearded man at that fearful disco in the Potteries may have said in 1979.
Just think what it would mean if the absence of individual virtues was indeed a vice. Apart from anything, no product of the creative imagination could possibly encompass more than a minute fraction of the Hilbertian space of possible virtues, so every cultural artefact would be a suppurating mass of moral degeneration, rather than just the best ones. So let it be with football.
Oh yes, the football. Not a great game, as I may or may not have remembered to imply, but I enjoyed it. Barcelona won it 1-0, scoring a few minutes before the end of extra time, for which Shakhtar deserve great credit. Yes I did mean that. Tell me, could you stop a team like Barcelona scoring for nearly two hours?
Let's just stop a moment and consider their achievement. They had no more players than Barcelona did. The ball is regularly shaped, and specifically designed to travel long distances quickly when kicked hard. The goal is many times bigger than the ball is, and only one of them was allowed to block it with his hands.
The people trying to put it in the net had names like Messi, Henry and Puyol. They had to mostly use their feet as well, but it hardly seemed to inconvenience them at all. One imagines them walking on their hands round supermarkets, backheeling pork chops off the shelf and into the trolley, where they land right way up, nestled between the Sancerre and the prosciutto.
Yet not only did Shakhtar hold them off for 115 minutes, they actually got down the other end to have some shots on goal themselves. This is akin to the Iraqi resistance not only surviving the surge but making it all the way to Washington and having a surge of their own.
When the goal came it was like billiards played in a particle accelerator. Pedro to Messi, Messi back to Pedro through a dimension we didn't know existed, Pedro to the back of the net. You could have wept for Shakhtar, after all their valiant efforts, but I was thrilled even if they weren't.
Tomorrow, Middlesbrough come to Bristol, then it's Man United v Arsenal on the telly. To be honest, I just can't help watching people kick balls around. If you were doing it now I'd probably be transfixed. Fortunately, there usually seems to be enough to watch.
Wednesday, 26 August 2009
Temporary hiatus
I'm at my Dad's for a few days, so service may be a little limited. I'll be back by the weekend, and I may get to post in the interim, depending.
Just a quick quote from the Guardian, themselves quoting Sol Campbell.
Some Premier League clubs are all over the place behind the scenes. You would be shocked. Not all of them are well-oiled machines.
I would imagine not. One of last year's relegated clubs seemed to be oiled by nothing more viscous than a few bottles of Newcastle Brown. Meanwhile, Harry Redknapp has said he would love to have brought Campbell back to Spurs, but the fans would never have stood for it. Instead, Campbell has taken a long-term contract at newly rich Notts County. For the second post in a row, I find myself too depressed to make fun.
Just a quick quote from the Guardian, themselves quoting Sol Campbell.
Some Premier League clubs are all over the place behind the scenes. You would be shocked. Not all of them are well-oiled machines.
I would imagine not. One of last year's relegated clubs seemed to be oiled by nothing more viscous than a few bottles of Newcastle Brown. Meanwhile, Harry Redknapp has said he would love to have brought Campbell back to Spurs, but the fans would never have stood for it. Instead, Campbell has taken a long-term contract at newly rich Notts County. For the second post in a row, I find myself too depressed to make fun.
Sunday, 23 August 2009
The heart of the matter
It was like a Graham Greene novel out there yesterday. Unfortunately it was Cardiff that played like the higher power, while City took the part of the whisky priests. Cardiff 3 - 0 Bristol City it ended up. The power and the glory were theirs, for ever and ever amen, etc etc. We played like burnt out cases, we didn't have the human factor, we could have done with a quiet American or maybe some Brighton rock, yada yada yada.
Just fill in the blanks yourself. I can't be bothered with the bathetic misapplication of middlebrow metaphors today. It's only fucking football, you know. There's really no need to complicate things.
It was on telly, was the problem. We're always shit when we're on the telly. I should know better than to watch it (thanks as always to Dave for his excellent hospitality, by the way, and for having Sky TV, which made the whole thing possible, and meant we could watch England about to win the Ashes during half-time).
It's the hope, you see. Despite everything we secretly know to be true. It briefly lifts us, but only to bring into sharper relief the inevitability of its betrayal by the combined action of our own moral insufficiency and elemental forces beyond our control. We'd like to be stoical about it, but we're too weak in flesh and spirit.
Yes, I know I said I'd stop it. That wasn't literary metaphor, that was a straightforward statement of the facts.
The referee didn't help. I make no definite claims about his geographical origins, but I'm sure I saw some laver bread sticking out of his pocket. And we had our moments. Eliott hit the post when we were 1-0 down. If that had gone in, who knows what might have happened. Nothing good, it wasn't that kind of book (game! not that kind of game!), but a slightly mitigated kind of bad.
Rovers won, too. They're now fourth. But in a shit league. We mustn't ever lose sight of that. Charlton and Leeds are first and second in that league, and are the only teams in the country to have four wins in four games. I'll be discussing the subject of Leeds soon.
Cardiff go top, although that means little after four games. We're tenth, and you just know it's going to be a tough year for the chasing pack. In second, third and forth are Middlesbrough, Newcastle and West Brom, the three teams that came down last season, and it would be a big surprise if at least two of them didn't go straight back up again. Meanwhile, apart from Cardiff, Sheffield United are going well, and Reading, Ipswich and QPR are likely to hit their stride soon.
So it's probably going to be a tough season for City, and Gary Johnson. I'm sorry, I was forgetting. For City, and Gary Johnson (we love him). We may be in the trough of despond, but we're not fickle.
Just fill in the blanks yourself. I can't be bothered with the bathetic misapplication of middlebrow metaphors today. It's only fucking football, you know. There's really no need to complicate things.
It was on telly, was the problem. We're always shit when we're on the telly. I should know better than to watch it (thanks as always to Dave for his excellent hospitality, by the way, and for having Sky TV, which made the whole thing possible, and meant we could watch England about to win the Ashes during half-time).
It's the hope, you see. Despite everything we secretly know to be true. It briefly lifts us, but only to bring into sharper relief the inevitability of its betrayal by the combined action of our own moral insufficiency and elemental forces beyond our control. We'd like to be stoical about it, but we're too weak in flesh and spirit.
Yes, I know I said I'd stop it. That wasn't literary metaphor, that was a straightforward statement of the facts.
The referee didn't help. I make no definite claims about his geographical origins, but I'm sure I saw some laver bread sticking out of his pocket. And we had our moments. Eliott hit the post when we were 1-0 down. If that had gone in, who knows what might have happened. Nothing good, it wasn't that kind of book (game! not that kind of game!), but a slightly mitigated kind of bad.
Rovers won, too. They're now fourth. But in a shit league. We mustn't ever lose sight of that. Charlton and Leeds are first and second in that league, and are the only teams in the country to have four wins in four games. I'll be discussing the subject of Leeds soon.
Cardiff go top, although that means little after four games. We're tenth, and you just know it's going to be a tough year for the chasing pack. In second, third and forth are Middlesbrough, Newcastle and West Brom, the three teams that came down last season, and it would be a big surprise if at least two of them didn't go straight back up again. Meanwhile, apart from Cardiff, Sheffield United are going well, and Reading, Ipswich and QPR are likely to hit their stride soon.
So it's probably going to be a tough season for City, and Gary Johnson. I'm sorry, I was forgetting. For City, and Gary Johnson (we love him). We may be in the trough of despond, but we're not fickle.
Stat counting
I'm tracking you all. You may not know it, but I can see your IP address, your location, and much else besides. And you can stop that right now. You don't even know what I look like, you dirty sod. Oh hang on, I can see the other page you're looking at. Ooh, I see we're more similar than I'd realised. Actually, I'm catching you up fast. Hold off a minute, we can finish together.
I'm tracking you through StatCounter, and don't worry, I can't really see what you're looking at. In any case, I've no idea which of the many IP addresses I can see is you. I can see a surprising amount, though.
For instance, I've clearly got a fan in Ipswich. He first came on August 17th, at 10:20 in the morning. Since then he's made multiple visits spread over more than one day, he uses Firefox 3.5 for a browser, Windows XP for an operating system and his screen resolution is 1024 x 768. I can see his IP address, and even who his ISP is.
I say he, but it could just as easily be a she. I've no way to marry up the data I can see with any personal data about you. I bet Google could though. Or Tesco. Or Homeland Security. I wouldn't abuse my limited knowledge, but you should probably be aware that people who would can, and their knowledge won't be as limited as mine.
Anyway, Tractor Boy, come on up and say hello. No that's not an insult, Ipswich fans are known as Tractor Boys. It's an ironic thing. Although it may not be appreciated if it's a Tractor Girl, of course. How very unfair that Tractor Girl sounds like the website from the first paragraph.
So who else has been in? Well, I've had a visit from the Audit Commission, and the Oxford University Press, so I guess I'd better watch my manners. Yeah, right. Elsewhere, there's been a heartwarming amount of traffic from Leamington Spa, Warwickshire, where I used to live, and the predicted large numbers from Bristol.
Many of you are from farther afield, though. I had Canada, Spain and the Czech Republic in the other day. People have even dropped in from such far flung places as Lagos, Nigeria and Kitakyushu, Japan. Welcome one and all.
I've got the free option, so it only tracks my last 500 visits in any detail. It does offer to increase that number, but I'd have to pay. Increase your log size today, it says, but I could do that with lentils. If I got a few more numbers I might think about it, but that'll take a while yet.
I did manage a traffic spike when I dropped a comment in a post on the Guardian blog. On previous blogs I've managed to build up a regular audience in the hundreds, but it takes time. After the Guardian post I had over 200 new faces drop by.
It doesn't last though. The figures have dropped back to about ten readers a day. A blog is like an inner tube with a tiny hole in it. If you keep pumping it up you can inflate it without difficulty, but if you leave it it goes flat surprisingly quickly. More whoring myself about, that's the answer.
I'm tracking you through StatCounter, and don't worry, I can't really see what you're looking at. In any case, I've no idea which of the many IP addresses I can see is you. I can see a surprising amount, though.
For instance, I've clearly got a fan in Ipswich. He first came on August 17th, at 10:20 in the morning. Since then he's made multiple visits spread over more than one day, he uses Firefox 3.5 for a browser, Windows XP for an operating system and his screen resolution is 1024 x 768. I can see his IP address, and even who his ISP is.
I say he, but it could just as easily be a she. I've no way to marry up the data I can see with any personal data about you. I bet Google could though. Or Tesco. Or Homeland Security. I wouldn't abuse my limited knowledge, but you should probably be aware that people who would can, and their knowledge won't be as limited as mine.
Anyway, Tractor Boy, come on up and say hello. No that's not an insult, Ipswich fans are known as Tractor Boys. It's an ironic thing. Although it may not be appreciated if it's a Tractor Girl, of course. How very unfair that Tractor Girl sounds like the website from the first paragraph.
So who else has been in? Well, I've had a visit from the Audit Commission, and the Oxford University Press, so I guess I'd better watch my manners. Yeah, right. Elsewhere, there's been a heartwarming amount of traffic from Leamington Spa, Warwickshire, where I used to live, and the predicted large numbers from Bristol.
Many of you are from farther afield, though. I had Canada, Spain and the Czech Republic in the other day. People have even dropped in from such far flung places as Lagos, Nigeria and Kitakyushu, Japan. Welcome one and all.
I've got the free option, so it only tracks my last 500 visits in any detail. It does offer to increase that number, but I'd have to pay. Increase your log size today, it says, but I could do that with lentils. If I got a few more numbers I might think about it, but that'll take a while yet.
I did manage a traffic spike when I dropped a comment in a post on the Guardian blog. On previous blogs I've managed to build up a regular audience in the hundreds, but it takes time. After the Guardian post I had over 200 new faces drop by.
It doesn't last though. The figures have dropped back to about ten readers a day. A blog is like an inner tube with a tiny hole in it. If you keep pumping it up you can inflate it without difficulty, but if you leave it it goes flat surprisingly quickly. More whoring myself about, that's the answer.
Friday, 21 August 2009
Secret santa
Professor Graham Kendall of Nottingham University has written a program to solve one of the hardest problems in football, calculating the yearly fixture list (Prof develops football-match scheduling software). Thanks to striqun for the link.
Like Othello, the the list has one simple rule. Each team has to play every other team in the League twice, once at home and once away. Unlike Othello, there are lots of other, less simple rules to take into consideration.
Not the play, you fool. The game. If I'd meant the play it would imply that football was organised around the irrational obsessions of powerful men, which would never be allowed.
The first extra rule is, you don't want teams playing their games too closely together. If you've just had Crystal Palace visit, you don't want to be going back there the next weekend. Or at all, at least while they're managed by a charmless genetically modified warthog, but some of life's traumas are unavoidable.
Also, the police don't want both teams in a city at home the same weekend. This is hard enough for places like Sheffield, where United and Wednesday play in the same league, but in Bristol it means alternate home weeks for City and Rovers, both in different divisions.
And they don't like the top teams playing each other on public holidays. This means Chelsea, Man United, Arsenal and Liverpool can't play each other on Boxing Day or New Years Day.
But Kendall reckons he's cracked all this. He claims to be in discussions with the FA and other football bodies.
I once solved a very similar problem. I had to arrange for everyone in a group of eight to get a secret santa, making sure that no-one got themselves or their partner, and no-one knew who anyone else was buying for, including me.
Unfortunately I don't know how to program, beyond some very basic Basic, so I had to do the whole thing using Microsoft Excel. If you ask me this makes me some kind of a genius, and if Wenger, Benitez, Hughes and Ferguson are planning a secret santa this Christmas, I'm sure I could sort it out for them.
Please don't take that as a prediction of the likely top four, by the way, except possibly the top four Premiership bickerers. I left out Ancelotti at Chelsea because he's only just arrived, and simply hasn't had the time for any unpleasant scenes. Give it a few weeks. I expect Ferguson's already got something planned.
Whether Kendall will get to play secret santa for football is currently unclear, but I can see at least one problem for him. He's seeing the problem as a mathematical one, but for the various leagues it's far more political.
Everyone has an angle, you see. Teams like to have their first game at home, and their last. Fans like to go to a game on Boxing Day without having to travel across the country, and Man Utd have a much bigger voice than Wolves, so Man Utd v Wolves is a much more likely fixture than Wolves v Man Utd. Mind you, lots of Man Utd season ticket holders might appreciate being able to stop at Wolverhampton anyway. After all, they've already driven up from Kent.
Oh the hubris. I wrote this before I checked the fixture calendar. It turns out Man Utd are away after all, but at Hull, hundreds of miles from their Home Counties heartlands. Two out of the big four are away, two at home, exactly what you'd expect if fixtures were decided randomly without regard to money and ego. It's almost as if it was fair.
Like Othello, the the list has one simple rule. Each team has to play every other team in the League twice, once at home and once away. Unlike Othello, there are lots of other, less simple rules to take into consideration.
Not the play, you fool. The game. If I'd meant the play it would imply that football was organised around the irrational obsessions of powerful men, which would never be allowed.
The first extra rule is, you don't want teams playing their games too closely together. If you've just had Crystal Palace visit, you don't want to be going back there the next weekend. Or at all, at least while they're managed by a charmless genetically modified warthog, but some of life's traumas are unavoidable.
Also, the police don't want both teams in a city at home the same weekend. This is hard enough for places like Sheffield, where United and Wednesday play in the same league, but in Bristol it means alternate home weeks for City and Rovers, both in different divisions.
And they don't like the top teams playing each other on public holidays. This means Chelsea, Man United, Arsenal and Liverpool can't play each other on Boxing Day or New Years Day.
But Kendall reckons he's cracked all this. He claims to be in discussions with the FA and other football bodies.
I once solved a very similar problem. I had to arrange for everyone in a group of eight to get a secret santa, making sure that no-one got themselves or their partner, and no-one knew who anyone else was buying for, including me.
Unfortunately I don't know how to program, beyond some very basic Basic, so I had to do the whole thing using Microsoft Excel. If you ask me this makes me some kind of a genius, and if Wenger, Benitez, Hughes and Ferguson are planning a secret santa this Christmas, I'm sure I could sort it out for them.
Please don't take that as a prediction of the likely top four, by the way, except possibly the top four Premiership bickerers. I left out Ancelotti at Chelsea because he's only just arrived, and simply hasn't had the time for any unpleasant scenes. Give it a few weeks. I expect Ferguson's already got something planned.
Whether Kendall will get to play secret santa for football is currently unclear, but I can see at least one problem for him. He's seeing the problem as a mathematical one, but for the various leagues it's far more political.
Everyone has an angle, you see. Teams like to have their first game at home, and their last. Fans like to go to a game on Boxing Day without having to travel across the country, and Man Utd have a much bigger voice than Wolves, so Man Utd v Wolves is a much more likely fixture than Wolves v Man Utd. Mind you, lots of Man Utd season ticket holders might appreciate being able to stop at Wolverhampton anyway. After all, they've already driven up from Kent.
Oh the hubris. I wrote this before I checked the fixture calendar. It turns out Man Utd are away after all, but at Hull, hundreds of miles from their Home Counties heartlands. Two out of the big four are away, two at home, exactly what you'd expect if fixtures were decided randomly without regard to money and ego. It's almost as if it was fair.
Wednesday, 19 August 2009
Midweek games
We had our first evening game on Tuesday. For the benefit of the uninitiated, each team has to get through 46 games in nine months, so some games have to be played in the week. Factoring in cup competitions and the occasional Saturday off for internationals, City usually play eight to ten midweek games a season, split between home and away. They're always played in the evening, under floodlights.
Three or four times every year, then, usually on a Tuesday, there's some minor inconvenience for people commuting across the city from places like Nailsea. And the fuss they make. You'd think they were being put out for something unimportant.
Last night we had Queens Park Rangers, a London side like Crystal Palace. We won 1-0 (Bristol City 1 - 0 QPR), again, but this time without any of the shenannigans which besmirched the good name of football so amusingly on Saturday. As Officer said on that subject in the Guardian comments, the other thing that we shouldn't lose sight of is the fact that this whole thing is very, very funny. Just so.
For there's an inconvenient truth about such incidents, which is that football needs a bit of slapstick. The grotesque refereeing errors, the failed clearances, the Warnock press conferences: the game needs farce for the same reason Shakespeare does - to underscore the moments of real drama.
None of that yesterday, anyway. A good performance, a win, and we all went home happy. Especially Dave, whose birthday it was. Many happy returns, mate.
We've all been waiting to see Andrius Velicka, the Lithuanian star on loan from Glasgow Rangers, so we were pleased to see him brought on in the sixty third minute, then rather less pleased to see him being carried off on a stretcher in the seventy fifth. Apparently he may be out for the season, and will probably return to Glasgow whence he came, but I'm sure the memory of his twelve minutes in the famous red and white will keep him warm in the freezing Baltic winters of his old age. Tell us again, Grandpappy Andrius, the little ones will say. Tell us of the aimless lob towards the Atyeo end at 9:17pm on the glorious day.
His tragedy was our opportunity, as it meant Lee Johnson made his first appearance of the year, and he made the pass that put Nicky Maynard in to score a few minutes later. This was particularly pleasing for the many fans with a soft spot for him.
Lee Johnson's father, you see, is City manager Gary Johnson (we love him). He's been a crucial midfield player for us since he moved here with his old dad from their last team, Yeovil. Because he's the manager's son, he gets a lot of flak from people who think he's only in the team for reasons of nepotism.
Which is bollocks. He's in the team because he's one of our best players. Two seasons ago he was injured for a few months, and we had our worst run of the season. So it was lovely to have him back, and lovely to see the immediate difference he made.
So a good night for City, immediately followed by a good night for getting excited about football in the pub. Because last night Burnley beat Man United 1-0 (Burnley 1-0 Man Utd). How the mighty are fleetingly disconcerted.
Give it a week or two and everything will be back to normal (expect Wigan to feel the full force of the United backlash on Saturday), but it's nice to dwell in the moment sometimes.
Three or four times every year, then, usually on a Tuesday, there's some minor inconvenience for people commuting across the city from places like Nailsea. And the fuss they make. You'd think they were being put out for something unimportant.
Last night we had Queens Park Rangers, a London side like Crystal Palace. We won 1-0 (Bristol City 1 - 0 QPR), again, but this time without any of the shenannigans which besmirched the good name of football so amusingly on Saturday. As Officer said on that subject in the Guardian comments, the other thing that we shouldn't lose sight of is the fact that this whole thing is very, very funny. Just so.
For there's an inconvenient truth about such incidents, which is that football needs a bit of slapstick. The grotesque refereeing errors, the failed clearances, the Warnock press conferences: the game needs farce for the same reason Shakespeare does - to underscore the moments of real drama.
None of that yesterday, anyway. A good performance, a win, and we all went home happy. Especially Dave, whose birthday it was. Many happy returns, mate.
We've all been waiting to see Andrius Velicka, the Lithuanian star on loan from Glasgow Rangers, so we were pleased to see him brought on in the sixty third minute, then rather less pleased to see him being carried off on a stretcher in the seventy fifth. Apparently he may be out for the season, and will probably return to Glasgow whence he came, but I'm sure the memory of his twelve minutes in the famous red and white will keep him warm in the freezing Baltic winters of his old age. Tell us again, Grandpappy Andrius, the little ones will say. Tell us of the aimless lob towards the Atyeo end at 9:17pm on the glorious day.
His tragedy was our opportunity, as it meant Lee Johnson made his first appearance of the year, and he made the pass that put Nicky Maynard in to score a few minutes later. This was particularly pleasing for the many fans with a soft spot for him.
Lee Johnson's father, you see, is City manager Gary Johnson (we love him). He's been a crucial midfield player for us since he moved here with his old dad from their last team, Yeovil. Because he's the manager's son, he gets a lot of flak from people who think he's only in the team for reasons of nepotism.
Which is bollocks. He's in the team because he's one of our best players. Two seasons ago he was injured for a few months, and we had our worst run of the season. So it was lovely to have him back, and lovely to see the immediate difference he made.
So a good night for City, immediately followed by a good night for getting excited about football in the pub. Because last night Burnley beat Man United 1-0 (Burnley 1-0 Man Utd). How the mighty are fleetingly disconcerted.
Give it a week or two and everything will be back to normal (expect Wigan to feel the full force of the United backlash on Saturday), but it's nice to dwell in the moment sometimes.
Monday, 17 August 2009
How to get an audience
You do it by whoring yourself on the Guardian blogs, basically. I got 127 unique visitors yesterday, and 85 already today.
Which means you. You're one unique visitor. Not because of your habits, although obviously they helped, but because of your IP address. You may have several page views, if you click on my profile or the comments on a post or something, but your IP address only counts once on any day. If you share an IP address with your gimp or gimpee and they also visited, then you count as one between you. So get a Google phone or something, you cheapskate.
On my previous blogs I was getting a few hundred readers most days, but it takes time to build up. This is the first time I've passed a hundred in the first week since my last World Cup blog.
So step forward the hero of my success, Rob Shoebridge. His failure to spot the bleeding obvious made our Saturday game the talking point of the week, so when I went on this Guardian blog by well known Crystal Palace fan and impartial source Dominic Fifield to add my tuppence worth, many many people clicked on the link to my blog that I so immodestly inserted into my actual comment. Thus the whoring, you see.
No-one clicked on an advert, though. What are you, Trappists? Don't you want to know the secret of a flat belly? It's too late for me, but you could still save yourselves.
Incidentally, the intricacies of stat counting are fascinating. I'll be writing something specifically about that over the next few days. For the moment, if you've got a blog or other form of website, you might want to sign up to StatCounter.
Which means you. You're one unique visitor. Not because of your habits, although obviously they helped, but because of your IP address. You may have several page views, if you click on my profile or the comments on a post or something, but your IP address only counts once on any day. If you share an IP address with your gimp or gimpee and they also visited, then you count as one between you. So get a Google phone or something, you cheapskate.
On my previous blogs I was getting a few hundred readers most days, but it takes time to build up. This is the first time I've passed a hundred in the first week since my last World Cup blog.
So step forward the hero of my success, Rob Shoebridge. His failure to spot the bleeding obvious made our Saturday game the talking point of the week, so when I went on this Guardian blog by well known Crystal Palace fan and impartial source Dominic Fifield to add my tuppence worth, many many people clicked on the link to my blog that I so immodestly inserted into my actual comment. Thus the whoring, you see.
No-one clicked on an advert, though. What are you, Trappists? Don't you want to know the secret of a flat belly? It's too late for me, but you could still save yourselves.
Incidentally, the intricacies of stat counting are fascinating. I'll be writing something specifically about that over the next few days. For the moment, if you've got a blog or other form of website, you might want to sign up to StatCounter.
Sunday, 16 August 2009
Warnock, what's the score?
It was our first home game of the new season yesterday. First time to walk to the ground, first time to stop off at the sweet shop, first time seeing the guys who sit round us. And the first time I've ever seen anything quite like the Crystal Palace goal that wasn't. The goal itself isn't up on the BBC website until Monday, but here's Palace manager Neil Warnock talking about it (Bristol City 1 Crystal Palace 0).
For those of you who may not be familiar with Warnock, he's the kind of manager that opposing fans love to hate. I should perhaps explain. There are managers you love to hate, and others that you hate to hate. Among the latter are Alex Ferguson and Jose Mourinho, people whose very existence depresses you. The moment they come on the telly, you know they're not just going to say something you hate, they're going to make the experience of hating them unpleasant, because of the distasteful nature of the kind of hate they inspire.
Warnock isn't like that. Every time you see him, you think Oh good, it's Warnock. He's going to say something that makes me hate him even more, which I shall really enjoy.
In this respect, he's the reverse of Bobby Robson, universally respected even by people who would have preferred not to. After Robson died a few weeks ago they had a minute's applause at the start of every game. It was scrupulously observed, even at rival clubs. When Warnock dies, they'll have a minute's booing, even at clubs he's managed. And afterwards, everyone will agree how appropriate it was, and what a shame it was the man himself couldn't have been there to enjoy it.
Perhaps uniquely, he's hated by City and Rovers fans alike. Most of the time, the enmity of one set of fans will earn you some sympathy from the other, but Warnock's Warnockness trumps all traditional football emotions.
One time a City fan allegedly punched him. In that fan's defence, he probably really enjoyed it. Punch Ferguson or Mourinho and you'd feel like you'd just soiled your fist, and not in a good way. Punching Warnock, though, would be good wholesome fun. They couldn't show it on the telly, but it would get a million hits on YouTube in no time.
All of which sets the scene for Saturday. Half an hour in, Freddie Sears scored a perfectly good goal, getting in behind our defence and lobbing the ball over our keeper and into an empty net. The Palace players had already turned away in celebration when the ball hit the metal bar stretched across the back of the goal to peg down the net, and bounced out at a funny angle.
Through some incomprehensible trick of the light, both referee and linesman thought it had gone wide, and instead of a goal they gave a goal kick. We were baffled. It's not often an inanimate metal object turns out to be your best defender.
Warnock was incensed. At the end of the game he refused to shake the City players' hands. In the interview linked to at the top he said City should have given Palace a goal to make up for it.
The discussion was delicately handled by presenter Manish Bhasin, who after all has to work with Warnock in the future, but he did ask him whether he'd have done that if the ball was on the other foot, or come to that in the other goal. It has to be said that Warnock didn't unequivocally say that he would have.
Because that isn't what happens. It's quite true that a legitimate goal had been disallowed, but that happens all the time. If every team who got a lucky break immediately kicked the ball in their own net half the goals scored in football would be self-inflicted.
And I would add this. Out of all the thousands of people in the stadium yesterday, not one person punched Neil Warnock in the face. Have you seen his face? What kind of Corinthian age of sportsmanship and self-restraint are we living in, that such faces are walking around unpunched?
We did rather mock him, though. Warnock, what's the score? Warnock, Warnock, what's the score? This was in deliberate echo of the time we'd chanted this two seasons ago, when we put Palace out of the playoffs with two late goals. A cherished memory, but it may have been an undiplomatic time to have brought it up.
To his credit, Warnock resolutely refused to behave with the kind of dignity and restraint which would have made him harder to hate. Gary Johnson did, giving Warnock the space to misbehave and waiting until he and the referee had left the pitch before doing his traditional victory airpunch, but then Johnson is Dignity personified and crammed into a tight-fitting suit.
We love you Johnson, because you're fat and round. The song doesn't add and dignified, because most football fans wouldn't call someone dignified when they could call them fat and round, but it wouldn't be any less truthful if it did. It must be awful being an opposing fan, and having no way to realistically take against him.
It's easier for us with Warnock though. If it was any other manager we'd have to be a bit embarrassed, but him? Ha bloody ha.
For those of you who may not be familiar with Warnock, he's the kind of manager that opposing fans love to hate. I should perhaps explain. There are managers you love to hate, and others that you hate to hate. Among the latter are Alex Ferguson and Jose Mourinho, people whose very existence depresses you. The moment they come on the telly, you know they're not just going to say something you hate, they're going to make the experience of hating them unpleasant, because of the distasteful nature of the kind of hate they inspire.
Warnock isn't like that. Every time you see him, you think Oh good, it's Warnock. He's going to say something that makes me hate him even more, which I shall really enjoy.
In this respect, he's the reverse of Bobby Robson, universally respected even by people who would have preferred not to. After Robson died a few weeks ago they had a minute's applause at the start of every game. It was scrupulously observed, even at rival clubs. When Warnock dies, they'll have a minute's booing, even at clubs he's managed. And afterwards, everyone will agree how appropriate it was, and what a shame it was the man himself couldn't have been there to enjoy it.
Perhaps uniquely, he's hated by City and Rovers fans alike. Most of the time, the enmity of one set of fans will earn you some sympathy from the other, but Warnock's Warnockness trumps all traditional football emotions.
One time a City fan allegedly punched him. In that fan's defence, he probably really enjoyed it. Punch Ferguson or Mourinho and you'd feel like you'd just soiled your fist, and not in a good way. Punching Warnock, though, would be good wholesome fun. They couldn't show it on the telly, but it would get a million hits on YouTube in no time.
All of which sets the scene for Saturday. Half an hour in, Freddie Sears scored a perfectly good goal, getting in behind our defence and lobbing the ball over our keeper and into an empty net. The Palace players had already turned away in celebration when the ball hit the metal bar stretched across the back of the goal to peg down the net, and bounced out at a funny angle.
Through some incomprehensible trick of the light, both referee and linesman thought it had gone wide, and instead of a goal they gave a goal kick. We were baffled. It's not often an inanimate metal object turns out to be your best defender.
Warnock was incensed. At the end of the game he refused to shake the City players' hands. In the interview linked to at the top he said City should have given Palace a goal to make up for it.
The discussion was delicately handled by presenter Manish Bhasin, who after all has to work with Warnock in the future, but he did ask him whether he'd have done that if the ball was on the other foot, or come to that in the other goal. It has to be said that Warnock didn't unequivocally say that he would have.
Because that isn't what happens. It's quite true that a legitimate goal had been disallowed, but that happens all the time. If every team who got a lucky break immediately kicked the ball in their own net half the goals scored in football would be self-inflicted.
And I would add this. Out of all the thousands of people in the stadium yesterday, not one person punched Neil Warnock in the face. Have you seen his face? What kind of Corinthian age of sportsmanship and self-restraint are we living in, that such faces are walking around unpunched?
We did rather mock him, though. Warnock, what's the score? Warnock, Warnock, what's the score? This was in deliberate echo of the time we'd chanted this two seasons ago, when we put Palace out of the playoffs with two late goals. A cherished memory, but it may have been an undiplomatic time to have brought it up.
To his credit, Warnock resolutely refused to behave with the kind of dignity and restraint which would have made him harder to hate. Gary Johnson did, giving Warnock the space to misbehave and waiting until he and the referee had left the pitch before doing his traditional victory airpunch, but then Johnson is Dignity personified and crammed into a tight-fitting suit.
We love you Johnson, because you're fat and round. The song doesn't add and dignified, because most football fans wouldn't call someone dignified when they could call them fat and round, but it wouldn't be any less truthful if it did. It must be awful being an opposing fan, and having no way to realistically take against him.
It's easier for us with Warnock though. If it was any other manager we'd have to be a bit embarrassed, but him? Ha bloody ha.
Friday, 14 August 2009
How it all works part one - the Leagues
I'm becoming aware that quite a large section of my audience has no idea what the hell I'm talking about most of the time. This isn't because of any lack of clarity on my part, you understand. It's because some of you haven't realised how much you like football yet.
I'm talking about those readers who see football like David Mitchell does (Watch the football!). Now this really is very funny indeed, and helped me to understand how football feels when you're looking at it from the outside, but even if you should happen to find it amusing it's vital that you be amused without being misled.
What you need is for me to explain. I won't go through the rules of football as such, but I will cover League structures, TV and so on. It'll take a few posts, but slowly you'll begin to see. Not everything, for on some level telling you about football will always be like giving Helen Keller a Rubik's cube, but at least you'll know how the parts all fit together, even if you can't begin to imagine why. It may not be the whole of the moon, but a crescent's better than nothing.
So. Professional English football, like Gaul, is divided into three parts (see, it's more interesting already). The top part is called the Premier League. This is the division you read about all the time, the one with Alex Ferguson, oil gangsters and the all-consuming air of moral decadence. The one that we all despise, but really, really want our teams to get into.
There are twenty teams in the Premier League. Each team plays the other nineteen teams twice a season, once at each ground, so every season each team plays thirty eight games.
You get three points for every game you win, and one point for a draw. If you lose you get no points, as punishment for being losers. At the end of the season, the team with most points is the League Champion. The top four teams go into the Champions League, of which more another time.
Yes, you're right, by the way. Of the four English teams in the Champions League, only one is the actual champion. It's actually something of a misnomer, like the Department of Social Security, or Doctor Gillian McKeith.
Below the Premiership is the Football League. This is also Gallically split into three - the Championship, League One and League Two. Each of these divisions has twenty four teams in it, making 92 professional football teams in the English leagues. Bristol City are in the Championship, the second level down.
So far, so simple, and in American sports that would be it. In Europe, though, football is like Ten Green Bottles. At the end of every season, the bottom three Premiership teams fall off.
The next season, they play in the Championship. The top two teams in the Championship go into the Premiership to replace them. The teams finishing third to sixth in the Championship then play off against each other, and the winner becomes the third team to be go up. This is the law of three up three down. Not a house built by a generous council, but the principle of natural selection as applied to football teams.
Similarly, the bottom three teams in the Championship go down to League One, to be replaced by the top two teams in League One and the League One playoff winners. Last season, the three teams who went down, Charlton, Southampton and Norwich, were all teams with many seasons of Premiership football behind them, so their fans aren't best pleased right now. The bottom four teams in League One go down, to be replaced by the top three teams in League Two and the winner of their playoffs.
Going down is called relegation, and going up is called promotion. Promotion comes from the Latin promotus, meaning moved forward, which is straightforward enough. Relegation, in the Roman world, meant being banished to the provinces, a fate which befell the poet Ovid when he fell out with the Emperor Augustus. Ovid spent the rest of his life in an unsuccessful battle to have his relegation reversed, which doesn't bode very well for Norwich if you ask me.
Once you fall out of League Two, you're into the world of amateur and semi-professional football, and before you know it it's jumpers for goalposts and pitches that look like the Somme, or at least the seventies. It's possible for teams to climb from the very lowest amateur level right to the top, just as it's possible for them to fall all the way back down again.
The third organisation in English football is the Football Association. This is an umbrella organisation covering all the leagues, and hated by most of them. More on them next time.
I'm talking about those readers who see football like David Mitchell does (Watch the football!). Now this really is very funny indeed, and helped me to understand how football feels when you're looking at it from the outside, but even if you should happen to find it amusing it's vital that you be amused without being misled.
What you need is for me to explain. I won't go through the rules of football as such, but I will cover League structures, TV and so on. It'll take a few posts, but slowly you'll begin to see. Not everything, for on some level telling you about football will always be like giving Helen Keller a Rubik's cube, but at least you'll know how the parts all fit together, even if you can't begin to imagine why. It may not be the whole of the moon, but a crescent's better than nothing.
So. Professional English football, like Gaul, is divided into three parts (see, it's more interesting already). The top part is called the Premier League. This is the division you read about all the time, the one with Alex Ferguson, oil gangsters and the all-consuming air of moral decadence. The one that we all despise, but really, really want our teams to get into.
There are twenty teams in the Premier League. Each team plays the other nineteen teams twice a season, once at each ground, so every season each team plays thirty eight games.
You get three points for every game you win, and one point for a draw. If you lose you get no points, as punishment for being losers. At the end of the season, the team with most points is the League Champion. The top four teams go into the Champions League, of which more another time.
Yes, you're right, by the way. Of the four English teams in the Champions League, only one is the actual champion. It's actually something of a misnomer, like the Department of Social Security, or Doctor Gillian McKeith.
Below the Premiership is the Football League. This is also Gallically split into three - the Championship, League One and League Two. Each of these divisions has twenty four teams in it, making 92 professional football teams in the English leagues. Bristol City are in the Championship, the second level down.
So far, so simple, and in American sports that would be it. In Europe, though, football is like Ten Green Bottles. At the end of every season, the bottom three Premiership teams fall off.
The next season, they play in the Championship. The top two teams in the Championship go into the Premiership to replace them. The teams finishing third to sixth in the Championship then play off against each other, and the winner becomes the third team to be go up. This is the law of three up three down. Not a house built by a generous council, but the principle of natural selection as applied to football teams.
Similarly, the bottom three teams in the Championship go down to League One, to be replaced by the top two teams in League One and the League One playoff winners. Last season, the three teams who went down, Charlton, Southampton and Norwich, were all teams with many seasons of Premiership football behind them, so their fans aren't best pleased right now. The bottom four teams in League One go down, to be replaced by the top three teams in League Two and the winner of their playoffs.
Going down is called relegation, and going up is called promotion. Promotion comes from the Latin promotus, meaning moved forward, which is straightforward enough. Relegation, in the Roman world, meant being banished to the provinces, a fate which befell the poet Ovid when he fell out with the Emperor Augustus. Ovid spent the rest of his life in an unsuccessful battle to have his relegation reversed, which doesn't bode very well for Norwich if you ask me.
Once you fall out of League Two, you're into the world of amateur and semi-professional football, and before you know it it's jumpers for goalposts and pitches that look like the Somme, or at least the seventies. It's possible for teams to climb from the very lowest amateur level right to the top, just as it's possible for them to fall all the way back down again.
The third organisation in English football is the Football Association. This is an umbrella organisation covering all the leagues, and hated by most of them. More on them next time.
Wednesday, 12 August 2009
Pop ups
It's not directly about football, but whilst working on something that is I'm getting popups of an inappropriate nature. On my work computer, which I share with many others, so if it's assumptions you're making you can stop right now. I'm being invited to join a service called Adult Friend Finder.
I was looking at the council website, which seems an implausible source of adult popups. I’m also finding it fairly implausible that there are that many young ladies (a) between the ages of 26 and 35, (b) looking for adult encounters, (c) reasonably attractive and (d) all living in North Walsham, a town of 12,000 citizens with no obvious erotic pedigree.
Even if you threw in Sheringham, Cromer and Holt for good measure it would still suggest a hotbed of unsatiated feminine lust, and in all my visits to Norfolk I've never encountered any such thing. In fact my life experience would suggest that the whole concept of a hotbed of unsatiated feminine lust is a product of the gentlemanly imagination. It's not the feminine lust bit that's implausible, it's the idea of not being able to find a man willing to satiate it.
The website does claim to be the ‘world’s largest sex and swingers online community’, and by those standards it must be. Extrapolating from available data, and adding in all the old, ugly or downright male people who don't get into the adverts, I estimate that about six per cent of the world's population are having rampant online encounters. No wonder my broadband's a bit slow sometimes.
Ah. A test has just revealed that when reloaded in a separate window the web page uses the same images with different usernames, and even the same username with different images. You just can’t trust some pornographers at all. How am I supposed to arrange my encounter with SexyRaveyChicky now? Especially as she seems to have morphed into just2cutenhott. By the time I got to North Walsham she'd be called BendOverThatChairOhLookaCattleProd, and I'm not going through that again.
I was looking at the council website, which seems an implausible source of adult popups. I’m also finding it fairly implausible that there are that many young ladies (a) between the ages of 26 and 35, (b) looking for adult encounters, (c) reasonably attractive and (d) all living in North Walsham, a town of 12,000 citizens with no obvious erotic pedigree.
Even if you threw in Sheringham, Cromer and Holt for good measure it would still suggest a hotbed of unsatiated feminine lust, and in all my visits to Norfolk I've never encountered any such thing. In fact my life experience would suggest that the whole concept of a hotbed of unsatiated feminine lust is a product of the gentlemanly imagination. It's not the feminine lust bit that's implausible, it's the idea of not being able to find a man willing to satiate it.
The website does claim to be the ‘world’s largest sex and swingers online community’, and by those standards it must be. Extrapolating from available data, and adding in all the old, ugly or downright male people who don't get into the adverts, I estimate that about six per cent of the world's population are having rampant online encounters. No wonder my broadband's a bit slow sometimes.
Ah. A test has just revealed that when reloaded in a separate window the web page uses the same images with different usernames, and even the same username with different images. You just can’t trust some pornographers at all. How am I supposed to arrange my encounter with SexyRaveyChicky now? Especially as she seems to have morphed into just2cutenhott. By the time I got to North Walsham she'd be called BendOverThatChairOhLookaCattleProd, and I'm not going through that again.
Monetisation
I've only gone and monetised my blog!
Dun-Dun-Dun! And other Hammer Horror sound effects.
It just means I've got adverts, and every time you click on a hundred thousand of them I get to buy a Mars bar. Don't encourage me, is my advice. Not that it did Marianne Faithfull any harm.
The main reason I've done it is because it used to amuse me seeing what was being advertised on previous blogs. Whenever I wrote anything mocking the world's religions for their institutionalised homophobia, my next post would always get gay lonely hearts ads, right next to church supplies firms and Muslim marriage agencies. I like to think that someone somewhere might have found a better life as a result. Apart from anything, I'm sure some of those church supplies could find new uses in a different context. Well, I say new ...
With my keywords you'll probably just be offered Arsenal strips and signed pictures of Alex Ferguson shouting, but do let us know in the comments if anything interesting turns up.
Dun-Dun-Dun! And other Hammer Horror sound effects.
It just means I've got adverts, and every time you click on a hundred thousand of them I get to buy a Mars bar. Don't encourage me, is my advice. Not that it did Marianne Faithfull any harm.
The main reason I've done it is because it used to amuse me seeing what was being advertised on previous blogs. Whenever I wrote anything mocking the world's religions for their institutionalised homophobia, my next post would always get gay lonely hearts ads, right next to church supplies firms and Muslim marriage agencies. I like to think that someone somewhere might have found a better life as a result. Apart from anything, I'm sure some of those church supplies could find new uses in a different context. Well, I say new ...
With my keywords you'll probably just be offered Arsenal strips and signed pictures of Alex Ferguson shouting, but do let us know in the comments if anything interesting turns up.
Monday, 10 August 2009
Weekend roundup
How lovely to be able to give you a Weekend roundup again, and for it not to just be a list of the drunks I met in the street. There were drunks, although Kevin never materialised, but mainly I'm summarising the football. The loveliness being that there's football to summarise, you see.
City's first game was at Preston. We went 2-0 up with goals from new signings Paul Hartley (from Celtic) and David Clarkson (from Motherwell). They both play for Scotland, which in football is considered a proper country. Preston then got two in the last ten minutes, including one from a penalty decision in the last minute which was described by the BBC as controversial, and on world-famous football blog Bounce as a pile of cack. Yes, world-famous. I know for a fact that at least one person in Sydney knows about it, so there.
One division below City and worlds apart you find Bristol Rovers, fresh from their recent much-lauded triumph over a "Liverpool XI". Unfortunately the real Leyton Orient turned up on Saturday, and saw them off comfortably enough. Next Saturday they travel to Stockport, so let's hope Stockport field a "Stockport XI" or things could go rapidly downhill.
The shock of the division came at Carrow Road, though. Norwich, having just been relegated to League One, were looking for a big start in a division they were expected to dominate. Manager Brian Gunn must have picked a "Norwich XI" though, because they got thrashed 7-1 by Colchester. I know I've said "XI" several times now. I just didn't want Rovers fans to think they had some kind of bragging rights or anything.
It's a bit of a shock for a team like Norwich to find themselves in the same division as Colchester in the first place, and the defeat must hurt all the more given that Colchester, just 60 miles and two English county borders away, can now claim the status of legitimate local rivals. 25,217 people watched the game, 25,218 if you count Colchester's goalkeeper, which is more than twice the capacity of the away team's ground.
Famously, Norwich are owned by Delia Smith, who travels to most of their away games with them. This leads to fan chants of Delia, Delia, give us a wave, and the ubiquitous Stick your meat pies up your arse. A rational individual might choose to refrain from the second in case it put her off responding to the first, but sports fans bring an unusual mindset to these things, as David Beckham was reminded a few weeks ago.
You may have heard he got booed when he went back to the Los Angeles Galaxy after his time at Milan. There's a brief video clip here (LA Galaxy fans boo Beckham). The incident itself is fairly tedious, although it did lead to an entertaining conversation in their fans forum, in which one commenter suggested they burn Beckham in effigy, but wanted to be sure that was felt to be appropriate. Appropriate? How is it possible to burn someone in effigy, in the presence of their wife and children, and yet still aspire to remain within the bounds of what's appropriate? I can only surmise that Californians may be having a few difficulties stooping to our cultural level. Stub out those joints and have some Tennants Extra, guys, you'll get the hang of it soon enough.
The point, though, is the outrage displayed by Galaxy fans when Beckham responded to their taunts. Like many fans, they seem to inhabit a world where once you've paid for your ticket you can use any language or gesture you like, at whatever volume appeals to you, but if your celebrity target responds in any way this is somehow the most outrageous thing ever.
The classic case of player backlash was of course Cantona kicking Palace fan Matthew Simmons in the head after he'd just been sent off. Opinion was divided as to the exact nature of Simmons' remarks. He claimed he'd said tough luck Eric, that's you for an early shower. Everyone else within earshot, though, thought he'd said Fuck off Cantona you French twat. Frankly, if someone said Fuck off you English twat to me and I had the necessary skills to kick them in the head while they were standing up, I would. Especially as it turned out Simmons was a neo-Fascist.
Two years ago, Cantona had this to say about his football memories. I have a lot of good memories, but the one I prefer is when I kicked the hooligan. An entire generation of anti-racists agrees, Eric.
Highlights are here (Preston 2 Bristol City 2), here (Bristol Rovers 1 Leyton Orient) and here (Norwich 1 Colchester 7), courtesy of the BBC, who have now acquired the TV rights to the Football League. This means you can now watch the highlights on the BBC iPlayer. I shall be reviewing the BBC coverage some time soon.
There's not much football this week, but the Premier League is back on Saturday. Not that I'll be forgetting my Football League roots. Oranges aren't the only fruit you know.
City's first game was at Preston. We went 2-0 up with goals from new signings Paul Hartley (from Celtic) and David Clarkson (from Motherwell). They both play for Scotland, which in football is considered a proper country. Preston then got two in the last ten minutes, including one from a penalty decision in the last minute which was described by the BBC as controversial, and on world-famous football blog Bounce as a pile of cack. Yes, world-famous. I know for a fact that at least one person in Sydney knows about it, so there.
One division below City and worlds apart you find Bristol Rovers, fresh from their recent much-lauded triumph over a "Liverpool XI". Unfortunately the real Leyton Orient turned up on Saturday, and saw them off comfortably enough. Next Saturday they travel to Stockport, so let's hope Stockport field a "Stockport XI" or things could go rapidly downhill.
The shock of the division came at Carrow Road, though. Norwich, having just been relegated to League One, were looking for a big start in a division they were expected to dominate. Manager Brian Gunn must have picked a "Norwich XI" though, because they got thrashed 7-1 by Colchester. I know I've said "XI" several times now. I just didn't want Rovers fans to think they had some kind of bragging rights or anything.
It's a bit of a shock for a team like Norwich to find themselves in the same division as Colchester in the first place, and the defeat must hurt all the more given that Colchester, just 60 miles and two English county borders away, can now claim the status of legitimate local rivals. 25,217 people watched the game, 25,218 if you count Colchester's goalkeeper, which is more than twice the capacity of the away team's ground.
Famously, Norwich are owned by Delia Smith, who travels to most of their away games with them. This leads to fan chants of Delia, Delia, give us a wave, and the ubiquitous Stick your meat pies up your arse. A rational individual might choose to refrain from the second in case it put her off responding to the first, but sports fans bring an unusual mindset to these things, as David Beckham was reminded a few weeks ago.
You may have heard he got booed when he went back to the Los Angeles Galaxy after his time at Milan. There's a brief video clip here (LA Galaxy fans boo Beckham). The incident itself is fairly tedious, although it did lead to an entertaining conversation in their fans forum, in which one commenter suggested they burn Beckham in effigy, but wanted to be sure that was felt to be appropriate. Appropriate? How is it possible to burn someone in effigy, in the presence of their wife and children, and yet still aspire to remain within the bounds of what's appropriate? I can only surmise that Californians may be having a few difficulties stooping to our cultural level. Stub out those joints and have some Tennants Extra, guys, you'll get the hang of it soon enough.
The point, though, is the outrage displayed by Galaxy fans when Beckham responded to their taunts. Like many fans, they seem to inhabit a world where once you've paid for your ticket you can use any language or gesture you like, at whatever volume appeals to you, but if your celebrity target responds in any way this is somehow the most outrageous thing ever.
The classic case of player backlash was of course Cantona kicking Palace fan Matthew Simmons in the head after he'd just been sent off. Opinion was divided as to the exact nature of Simmons' remarks. He claimed he'd said tough luck Eric, that's you for an early shower. Everyone else within earshot, though, thought he'd said Fuck off Cantona you French twat. Frankly, if someone said Fuck off you English twat to me and I had the necessary skills to kick them in the head while they were standing up, I would. Especially as it turned out Simmons was a neo-Fascist.
Two years ago, Cantona had this to say about his football memories. I have a lot of good memories, but the one I prefer is when I kicked the hooligan. An entire generation of anti-racists agrees, Eric.
Highlights are here (Preston 2 Bristol City 2), here (Bristol Rovers 1 Leyton Orient) and here (Norwich 1 Colchester 7), courtesy of the BBC, who have now acquired the TV rights to the Football League. This means you can now watch the highlights on the BBC iPlayer. I shall be reviewing the BBC coverage some time soon.
There's not much football this week, but the Premier League is back on Saturday. Not that I'll be forgetting my Football League roots. Oranges aren't the only fruit you know.
Sunday, 9 August 2009
Comments
It appears that I may have inadvertently forgotten to enable comments for everybody. This situation has now been rectified.
I now have three, yes three confirmed readers. That's three times as many as I had yesterday. If I can only maintain this growth rate, everyone in the world will be reading each post five times over by the end of the month. Before the end of harvest time the Internet will consist of nothing but me, and the world's rice will be rotting in the paddies as Chinese villagers stand hunched over their community laptop arguing about Lee Johnson's square balls, and whether or not that's a double entendre.
Unfortunately, three out of three of you don't like football. I definitely need to do something about this. No, not change topics. I'm going to make you all like it instead. Think of it as tough love.
I now have three, yes three confirmed readers. That's three times as many as I had yesterday. If I can only maintain this growth rate, everyone in the world will be reading each post five times over by the end of the month. Before the end of harvest time the Internet will consist of nothing but me, and the world's rice will be rotting in the paddies as Chinese villagers stand hunched over their community laptop arguing about Lee Johnson's square balls, and whether or not that's a double entendre.
Unfortunately, three out of three of you don't like football. I definitely need to do something about this. No, not change topics. I'm going to make you all like it instead. Think of it as tough love.
Saturday, 8 August 2009
Proper football
There was football on the television. Proper football, with actual league points at stake. Joy upon transcendent joy, joy above all merely quotidian joys. If the nation's got any seratonin left in it this morning, I'll want to know the reason why.
It was a bit of a shit game, to be honest. Middlesbrough 0 Sheffield Utd 0. Not the worst 0-0 you'll ever see, but there still hasn't been a goal in proper football this season.
There have been other games, of a kind. Some Scottish council estates got knocked out of the UEFA Cup by Mitteleuropan mining towns, and everyone's played a few friendlies. Rovers managed to limp to a 4-3 win over a "Liverpool XI", and the eastern half of the city is carrying on as if they'd beaten Liverpool somehow. Of course you and I understand that a "Liverpool XI" could just as easily be the Grant family from Brookside with Nerys Hughes in goal, but I suppose Rovers fans have to take their pleasures where they can.
None of that matters now though. Proper football is back. Not that they understood in the pub. We're not putting the big screen down until the proper football starts, said the barmaid, mystifyingly. Apparently she was under the illusion that proper football means the League where oil barons and racketeers pit gangs of pampered millionaires against each other in the most expensive cock fights money can buy.
I tried to explain. Proper football is the League with Bristol City in it. She wasn't persuaded. Some people are just beyond the reach of argument.
The other barmaid must been off the day they did the training in avoiding double entendres. Here's your beer, I'll just go and grab your nuts for you, she said, then corrected herself. I'll have to go down below. She meant she'd have to fetch my peanuts from the storage room in the basement, and I just couldn't bring myself to imply otherwise. It may have been the first time in my life I'd been served beer by someone thirty years younger than me, and to have dwelt on her infelicitous phrasing would have felt less like flirting and more like molestation. You have to act your age sometimes, even when it's a constant shock to you.
On the way home, I was accosted in the street by another young lady. Excuse me, have you seen a man called Kevin? she asked. Her friends thought her hilarious, and I wasn't unwilling to play along. I promised her I'd send any man who looked like a Kevin her way. She explained that he was with a man in a striped shirt called Rob, and if I saw him I was to tell him he was forgiven, but he had to get himself to the Hen and Chickens right away. Heroically, I managed to resist the temptation to ask her what Kevin's shirt was called.
I kept an eye open all the way back, but I didn't see them. I felt for Kevin, walking the streets of Bedminster all hangdog and forlorn, and unaware of his redemption. I wanted to help him, but there was nothing I could do.
So I'm turning to you, my lovely readers. If you see two men in the street today, check to see if one's looking sad while the other one is wearing a striped shirt. If so, ask them if they're Kevin and Rob, and if they are make sure Kevin understands the urgency of his predicament. There were four of them in the street and she was the only girl, so he needs to be told to get busy. For the Kevin in all of us, act now.
It was a bit of a shit game, to be honest. Middlesbrough 0 Sheffield Utd 0. Not the worst 0-0 you'll ever see, but there still hasn't been a goal in proper football this season.
There have been other games, of a kind. Some Scottish council estates got knocked out of the UEFA Cup by Mitteleuropan mining towns, and everyone's played a few friendlies. Rovers managed to limp to a 4-3 win over a "Liverpool XI", and the eastern half of the city is carrying on as if they'd beaten Liverpool somehow. Of course you and I understand that a "Liverpool XI" could just as easily be the Grant family from Brookside with Nerys Hughes in goal, but I suppose Rovers fans have to take their pleasures where they can.
None of that matters now though. Proper football is back. Not that they understood in the pub. We're not putting the big screen down until the proper football starts, said the barmaid, mystifyingly. Apparently she was under the illusion that proper football means the League where oil barons and racketeers pit gangs of pampered millionaires against each other in the most expensive cock fights money can buy.
I tried to explain. Proper football is the League with Bristol City in it. She wasn't persuaded. Some people are just beyond the reach of argument.
The other barmaid must been off the day they did the training in avoiding double entendres. Here's your beer, I'll just go and grab your nuts for you, she said, then corrected herself. I'll have to go down below. She meant she'd have to fetch my peanuts from the storage room in the basement, and I just couldn't bring myself to imply otherwise. It may have been the first time in my life I'd been served beer by someone thirty years younger than me, and to have dwelt on her infelicitous phrasing would have felt less like flirting and more like molestation. You have to act your age sometimes, even when it's a constant shock to you.
On the way home, I was accosted in the street by another young lady. Excuse me, have you seen a man called Kevin? she asked. Her friends thought her hilarious, and I wasn't unwilling to play along. I promised her I'd send any man who looked like a Kevin her way. She explained that he was with a man in a striped shirt called Rob, and if I saw him I was to tell him he was forgiven, but he had to get himself to the Hen and Chickens right away. Heroically, I managed to resist the temptation to ask her what Kevin's shirt was called.
I kept an eye open all the way back, but I didn't see them. I felt for Kevin, walking the streets of Bedminster all hangdog and forlorn, and unaware of his redemption. I wanted to help him, but there was nothing I could do.
So I'm turning to you, my lovely readers. If you see two men in the street today, check to see if one's looking sad while the other one is wearing a striped shirt. If so, ask them if they're Kevin and Rob, and if they are make sure Kevin understands the urgency of his predicament. There were four of them in the street and she was the only girl, so he needs to be told to get busy. For the Kevin in all of us, act now.
Thursday, 6 August 2009
I've been waiting and waiting and waiting
It's not that long really. The football off season, that is. It's certainly shorter in football than it is in lots of sports. The cricket stops for six long winter months, while the British weather cycle turns from warm beige to cold beige and back again. American baseball fans only have to get through five months, but it's a lot colder over there and there's no international Test matches to fill the gap.
Followers of NFL (American football) teams get a grand total of sixteen games a season, unless their team gets to the playoffs. That's eight home games a year, or one every 45 days, fifteen hours and forty five minutes. If you factor in the playoffs the frequency falls to one every 43 days, 18 hours, 36 minutes and twenty four seconds for the average team, but it's a long wait even so. More precisely, it's several fortnightly waits, and one really long one. From the first game of the regular season to the last takes sixteen weeks, three days and a few hours, so for most fans that long wait is 68.48% of the year.
What's that? Can you take the previous paragraph as some kind of declaration of intent? Oh, I think you can. Apparently some people blog without even having a spreadsheet open, but I can't imagine how. They may regard the Internet as an excuse to wallow in the mudpool of their own vagueness, but to me a blog post should be like Mondrian or the Gang of Four, all choppy riffs and hard edges.
Even the Superbowl teams play less than half the year. Necessary for the NFL players, who take more pounding than José Mourinho's anal sphincter, but hard on the fans. Allegedly, by the way. I said allegedly. No, not alleged by anyone in particular, just allegedly generally. Although now the subject of Mourinho's alleged anal pounding has been mentioned on the Internet, I think we can raise it to the status of a rumour.
Anyway, at a little under three months the football off season really isn't that long. It just seems like it. Especially in crappy odd numbered years like this one, when there's no big international tournament. Oh, I know there's the Confederations Cup, and this year it was genuinely quite entertaining. The USA beat Egypt then Spain, Italy went out early and Brazil won the final after coming back from 2-0 down to the USA at half-time. It made BBC3 almost worth having, as long as you can skip past the latest instalment of Young, Dumb and Given a Comedy Slot for no Reason.
But that was a brief and insignificant tournament, and most importantly it was weeks ago. Endless rainy summer weeks, without so much as an expertly executed offside trap to fill the ball shaped hole. No not José's, that's been stretched to more of a gash. I mean the metaphorical one. The ball-shaped hole at the centre of our summer lives. We do have feelings, you know. And needs. Just what the hell do they expect us to do?
And don't go telling me the cricket is some kind of alternative. If you're one of those people who thinks pale reflections of the ideal are enough somehow, then all I can say is I hope you enjoy your Sosmix sandwich and why don't you have a nice Dr Pepper's to wash it down with. Accept no substitutes, I say. In fact, if they don't get on with the real thing soon I shall thcream and thcream and thcream. I might even hold my breath.
Not for long, though. The Championship comes back with a roar tomorrow night, with Middlesbrough against Sheffield United. In a pub near you, unless you've chosen to live in some weird place like the Shetlands or America, where the world of wall-to-wall football has yet to reach. Then the League Cup starts in midweek, and the Premiership the week after that.
City start at Preston on Saturday, and our first home game is Crystal Palace the following Saturday, August 15th. About bloody time too. For a while there I was almost reduced to talking about the weather.
Followers of NFL (American football) teams get a grand total of sixteen games a season, unless their team gets to the playoffs. That's eight home games a year, or one every 45 days, fifteen hours and forty five minutes. If you factor in the playoffs the frequency falls to one every 43 days, 18 hours, 36 minutes and twenty four seconds for the average team, but it's a long wait even so. More precisely, it's several fortnightly waits, and one really long one. From the first game of the regular season to the last takes sixteen weeks, three days and a few hours, so for most fans that long wait is 68.48% of the year.
What's that? Can you take the previous paragraph as some kind of declaration of intent? Oh, I think you can. Apparently some people blog without even having a spreadsheet open, but I can't imagine how. They may regard the Internet as an excuse to wallow in the mudpool of their own vagueness, but to me a blog post should be like Mondrian or the Gang of Four, all choppy riffs and hard edges.
Even the Superbowl teams play less than half the year. Necessary for the NFL players, who take more pounding than José Mourinho's anal sphincter, but hard on the fans. Allegedly, by the way. I said allegedly. No, not alleged by anyone in particular, just allegedly generally. Although now the subject of Mourinho's alleged anal pounding has been mentioned on the Internet, I think we can raise it to the status of a rumour.
Anyway, at a little under three months the football off season really isn't that long. It just seems like it. Especially in crappy odd numbered years like this one, when there's no big international tournament. Oh, I know there's the Confederations Cup, and this year it was genuinely quite entertaining. The USA beat Egypt then Spain, Italy went out early and Brazil won the final after coming back from 2-0 down to the USA at half-time. It made BBC3 almost worth having, as long as you can skip past the latest instalment of Young, Dumb and Given a Comedy Slot for no Reason.
But that was a brief and insignificant tournament, and most importantly it was weeks ago. Endless rainy summer weeks, without so much as an expertly executed offside trap to fill the ball shaped hole. No not José's, that's been stretched to more of a gash. I mean the metaphorical one. The ball-shaped hole at the centre of our summer lives. We do have feelings, you know. And needs. Just what the hell do they expect us to do?
And don't go telling me the cricket is some kind of alternative. If you're one of those people who thinks pale reflections of the ideal are enough somehow, then all I can say is I hope you enjoy your Sosmix sandwich and why don't you have a nice Dr Pepper's to wash it down with. Accept no substitutes, I say. In fact, if they don't get on with the real thing soon I shall thcream and thcream and thcream. I might even hold my breath.
Not for long, though. The Championship comes back with a roar tomorrow night, with Middlesbrough against Sheffield United. In a pub near you, unless you've chosen to live in some weird place like the Shetlands or America, where the world of wall-to-wall football has yet to reach. Then the League Cup starts in midweek, and the Premiership the week after that.
City start at Preston on Saturday, and our first home game is Crystal Palace the following Saturday, August 15th. About bloody time too. For a while there I was almost reduced to talking about the weather.
Tuesday, 4 August 2009
Diving for sardines
Welcome to my brand new blog. If I had a pound for every time I've written that, I could buy a football club. Not Chelsea or Arsenal, but I bet I could stretch to Wigan. Mind you, I could stretch to Wigan if I nailed my beer gut to a tree and fired myself due north in a rocket.
Which places me, as alert readers with access to Google maps will have already worked out, somewhere between Warrington and the Ivory Coast. Actually I'm in Bristol, England. If you're wondering which way my local loyalties lie, then I can reveal that I support the football team that remembered to organise a new stadium before selling off the old one. Yes, I'm a Bristol City fan. Expect many panegyrics on the virtues of Gary Johnson (we love him), interspersed with fake pity and real laughter every time Rovers fail to deliver on their fans' embarrassingly limited expectations.
Previous readers will know all of this. They will also know that I normally start with a range of topics, then let football gradually elbow out the competition like knotweed in a water meadow. Well not this time. This time I'm going to write about football from the get go. It'll save time in the long run.
And for once I've managed to do things with some sense of timing. The new season kicks off on Friday, and at the end of the season there's a World Cup to look forward to. Happy days. Bollocks to summer fun, football is where it's at.
So why did I call my first post Diving for sardines? It is of course a reference to Eric Cantona's most notorious press conference, the one after he'd got sent off at Crystal Palace and then karate kicked a fan who was taunting him. I was going to say Man Utd legend Eric Cantona, but to be honest if you don't know who Eric Cantona played for you may be in the wrong place.
Or not. For I do like to sprinkle my football writing with references to non-sporting subjects, and you may be interested in some of those. In the past I've namechecked the Iliad, Planck's Constant, sodomy, Daleks and nematode worms. If none of those float your boat I despair for you. In fact many of my regular readers will already have slipped into a perfectly adequate fantasy world in which all of them appear at once.
Again, and do feel free to slap me if I keep wandering off the point, why the Cantona quote? Well, he was talking about the gutter press. When the seagulls follow the trawler, it is because they think sardines will be thrown into the sea, he said. He meant that the assorted hacks were gathered at his press conference in the hope that he might chuck them a tasty line or two, that they could turn into a column.
Which impressed me for two reasons. Firstly, it was a gratuitously obscure way of saying something fairly straightforward. Secondly, and this is the crucial bit, he'd made no effort at all to tailor his remarks to his audience.
For these weren't just any old hacks, they were unreconstructed football hacks, and football hacks make your average hack look like C P Snow. If you aren't moaning about losing the dressing room early doors after the referee missed the blatant handbags, they're both reluctant and frankly rather ill-equipped to make the cognitive leap into your world. They'll have to ask the guy from the Guardian what the hell you're talking about, he'll tell them it was a simile when it was actually a metaphor just to see if they print it, and by the time the dust settles you've made more enemies than Rowan Williams in a gay bar.
And therein lies the genius of it. Cantona's sublime indifference to his audience. I would so love to make him my role model for this blog, if only I could affect such gentlemanly disregard for all of you.
Unfortunately I'm the one scrabbling for titbits, not the one chucking them out, which is why I've called this Diving for sardines rather than Trawling for a better class of fish whilst mysteriously discarding the sardines you've already caught even though people are perfectly willing to buy them in tins. Despite the commercial unwisdom of Eric's piscine rhetoric, there's just no avoiding the fact that I'm a few steps down the food chain from him.
So the next time Craig Bellamy refuses to play until somebody gives him an ice cream, or Alex Ferguson gets into enough of a lather to froth up his own lattes, I really wouldn't expect me to rise above it. Their frightfulness is my material, and your momentary distraction.
It's going to be a great season.
Which places me, as alert readers with access to Google maps will have already worked out, somewhere between Warrington and the Ivory Coast. Actually I'm in Bristol, England. If you're wondering which way my local loyalties lie, then I can reveal that I support the football team that remembered to organise a new stadium before selling off the old one. Yes, I'm a Bristol City fan. Expect many panegyrics on the virtues of Gary Johnson (we love him), interspersed with fake pity and real laughter every time Rovers fail to deliver on their fans' embarrassingly limited expectations.
Previous readers will know all of this. They will also know that I normally start with a range of topics, then let football gradually elbow out the competition like knotweed in a water meadow. Well not this time. This time I'm going to write about football from the get go. It'll save time in the long run.
And for once I've managed to do things with some sense of timing. The new season kicks off on Friday, and at the end of the season there's a World Cup to look forward to. Happy days. Bollocks to summer fun, football is where it's at.
So why did I call my first post Diving for sardines? It is of course a reference to Eric Cantona's most notorious press conference, the one after he'd got sent off at Crystal Palace and then karate kicked a fan who was taunting him. I was going to say Man Utd legend Eric Cantona, but to be honest if you don't know who Eric Cantona played for you may be in the wrong place.
Or not. For I do like to sprinkle my football writing with references to non-sporting subjects, and you may be interested in some of those. In the past I've namechecked the Iliad, Planck's Constant, sodomy, Daleks and nematode worms. If none of those float your boat I despair for you. In fact many of my regular readers will already have slipped into a perfectly adequate fantasy world in which all of them appear at once.
Again, and do feel free to slap me if I keep wandering off the point, why the Cantona quote? Well, he was talking about the gutter press. When the seagulls follow the trawler, it is because they think sardines will be thrown into the sea, he said. He meant that the assorted hacks were gathered at his press conference in the hope that he might chuck them a tasty line or two, that they could turn into a column.
Which impressed me for two reasons. Firstly, it was a gratuitously obscure way of saying something fairly straightforward. Secondly, and this is the crucial bit, he'd made no effort at all to tailor his remarks to his audience.
For these weren't just any old hacks, they were unreconstructed football hacks, and football hacks make your average hack look like C P Snow. If you aren't moaning about losing the dressing room early doors after the referee missed the blatant handbags, they're both reluctant and frankly rather ill-equipped to make the cognitive leap into your world. They'll have to ask the guy from the Guardian what the hell you're talking about, he'll tell them it was a simile when it was actually a metaphor just to see if they print it, and by the time the dust settles you've made more enemies than Rowan Williams in a gay bar.
And therein lies the genius of it. Cantona's sublime indifference to his audience. I would so love to make him my role model for this blog, if only I could affect such gentlemanly disregard for all of you.
Unfortunately I'm the one scrabbling for titbits, not the one chucking them out, which is why I've called this Diving for sardines rather than Trawling for a better class of fish whilst mysteriously discarding the sardines you've already caught even though people are perfectly willing to buy them in tins. Despite the commercial unwisdom of Eric's piscine rhetoric, there's just no avoiding the fact that I'm a few steps down the food chain from him.
So the next time Craig Bellamy refuses to play until somebody gives him an ice cream, or Alex Ferguson gets into enough of a lather to froth up his own lattes, I really wouldn't expect me to rise above it. Their frightfulness is my material, and your momentary distraction.
It's going to be a great season.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
