Spurs v Preston. And Championship Manager

September 23, 2009September 24, 2009 / Alan / 3 Comments

Tempting though it may be to treat the League Cup as light relief after successive matches against top four teams, Preston away is serious business.

The contempt with which this competition is viewed within the game is evidenced by the number of ‘resting’ players this midweek. In the last round, even Doncaster fielded a weakened team, for goodness sake. However, this trophy is a major target for us, never mind the need to reassert our confidence after two substantial defeats, and I advocate a near first choice selection.

I confess I know very little about today’s Preston, although time was when I had a profound insight into the club. Preston were the choice of my son and I in Championship Manager 01. Our success gave the lie to the maxim that you cannot have joint managers. It may not have worked for Curbishley and Gritt at Charlton, but not so many miles from the Valley, two minds were as one.

Why we chose Preston, I’m not entirely clear. Can’t be Spurs, there’s too much of an emotional attachment. It’s bad enough kicking every ball and agonising over every miss every match, let alone putting yourself through that most evenings. Any other Prem team was out of the question, but we were attracted by the challenge of building a team on scant resources, using our football nouse, football people.

And so Preston it was. The board had limited funds and ambition to match, but although the pressure was off, we aimed high. The play-off final was a nadir in my cyber football career. Keeper David Lucas, promoted by us in the latter stages of the season, failed to repay our faith by having a mare. Subbed at halftime, the battle was already lost and even the efforts of our mystery Icelandic striker Porhallsson could not turn the game around. By then of course we had long ditched the football nouse idea – hours scouring the internet found the cheap guys who no one had heard of in real life but who excelled in CM. Press delete and start again.

CM is both an escape from and a mirror of reality. The following season was a triumphant march to the Premiership but once there, we could not buy any decent players and remaining loyal to the existing squad led inexorably to ignominious relegation and the sack. But I forgave them. Over the years curiously I’ve kept up with some of the players who did not feature for us. Paul McKenna (not that one) was a dedicated squad player in CM but in reality stayed for about 10 years and over 400 games before moving on this season to Forest. Richard Cresswell had great stats but did nothing for us, yet he’s flirted with the Prem at several clubs. On the other hand, we brought back ageing full back Graham Alexander as a first team regular and in real life he went on to become an international and scored on Saturday for Burnley. I like to think we can claim a little credit.

Spurs should field a strong team tonight. There are a few positions that might be up for grabs in the long run, so the choice between Gomes and Cudicini could indicate how much Harry rates the Brazilian. This is the moment to bring him in, if that is the plan, but Carlo has done well enough for us. Similarly, with Corluka and Hud the only centre halves available (I’m assuming Bassong will be rested after his bash on Sunday eve though it’s not a serious injury), there’s an opportunity for Hutton to have a run in the team, but again there’s a pointer if Naughton plays.

In centre midfield JJ and WP must anchor the team and up front is Crouch and Defoe for me. This leaves the two wide midfield places. Niko in one and hold Lennon as an impact sub if necessary, so maybe a chance for Bentley (my preferred option) or Gio.

As a postscript, put your hands together for all the Pompey faithful who went to Carlisle last night. That’s being a football supporter. Or insane.

Spurs v Chelsea. Harry Didn’t Help This Time

September 21, 2009September 21, 2009 / Alan / 4 Comments

By the end, the game had become painful viewing, with Chelsea stampeding through our injury-ravaged central defence and insolently swatting our feeble attempts to score. However, such thoughts should not totally obliterate the might-have-beens. Earlier we had severely troubled their much vaunted defence, the best centre half in the league had departed and of course the penalty that was not to be.

Have you noticed that Andy Gray, for all his smug self-satisfied pontificating about refereeing decisions, never gives an opinion without seeing at least two replays? I called it a penalty first time and so it was. It was a crucial moment, as much for the timing as for the prospect of a goal, because frankly we did not look like scoring any other way. Our team does not yet have the inner strength and resilience to lift itself from the doldrums against the quality teams by sheer force. Rather, we need something external, like a penalty or a bit of luck, or maybe a spurt of individual brilliance. Resilience: a word that earlier this season I threatened to return to repeatedly. It’s key and we don’t have enough of it yet. Today, we found no way back.

Harry has to shoulder much of the blame for this one. In my preview I wondered if he may have something up his sleeve to cover the left side problem. When I heard the team, I thought Jenas would be told to do a job there, but it never occurred to me that Palacios was to take on that role. He failed to stop Bosingwa’s runs and left the centre exposed. He’s been the foundation of our teamwork since January, so there was little value in changing the very thing that has made us successful.

Also, it’s all very well Lennon having a roving role – Jol did something similar a couple of years ago away to Chelsea and we went two up before they cottoned on to the tactic. We lost 3-2. However, yesterday sustained width would have stretched our opponents and kept Cole occupied, limiting the freedom to attack that won the game.

In the centre, JJ did well enough but the game passed Hud by. It was all just a bit to quick for him after the first twenty minutes. Keane moved well but penalty apart he had one of his un-coordinated days on the ball. And King, great player though he is, how long can we carry the risk of another breakdown during the match.

In contrast, Chelsea move purposefully as a unit and are just so much more comfortable with each other. For them, walking onto the pitch feels like pulling on a thick jumper from the back of the drawer, well-worn and cosy, whereas we are itching from new wool straight out the packet. Ancelotti has experience at the highest level of world football and the Italian league is harsh and brutal. The way things are going, if the Scudetto is like swimming with piranhas, the Premier League is the dentist’s fishtank in Finding Nemo. Here’s an exclusive Ancelotti team talk: ‘OK, line up like you have over the last couple of years, Ash and Jose move up a bit.’ Top of the league.

Having played United and Chelsea in successive weeks, one glaring difference between them and us is the pace at which the game is played. More about this later in the week, when I have more time to write. In the meantime, I did not want to go the game but to those who did, we heard you loud and clear on TV, terrific support and huge kudos to each and every one of you.

Spurs v Chelsea. Share My Pain

September 19, 2009February 9, 2010 / Alan / 9 Comments

Whatever the result, past glories mean that matches against Manchester United are amongst the most eagerly anticipated of any season. And so, a week later, to the one I most dread, Chelsea away.

My abiding abhorrence of Chelsea dates back to my childhood in west London. In 1967 Chelsea’s’ resurgence took them to the Cup Final and as the bandwagon passed through my primary school playground, it was standing room only. In those days the staple method of showing allegiance or just gathering numbers for a quick kick-about was to place your arms across a mate’s shoulders and march around, chanting the name of the chosen activity. As others joined each end, the line grew longer. Movement was sideways, rather than a prepubescent conga line, so usually some altercations ensued as innocents got in the way. Many kids joined these lines purely for the purpose of inflicting pain on their fellow school mates. Football, country dancing or maypole frolics, who cares when the opportunity to whack a classmate presented itself.

On the Thursday lunchtime before the Cup Final, two lines started, one Chelsea and one Spurs. The Chelsea line gradually became more visible as the chanting increased in volume and attracted more attention. Then the herd effect came into play as the sheep and the psychos linked up with the vocal minority. I guess Goebbels considered similar tactics in the 30s. Within a few short moments, the playground was empty save for one extended line of over a hundred interlocked kids. And five Spurs fans, including me. The phalanx turned by the shelters, with surprising dexterity manoeuvred round the drinking fountains and came towards us, as solid as a Roman legion, a hundred pairs of eyes intent on their prey and the scent of blood in their nostrils.

What happened next was not pleasant, and suffice to say Mr Watson and the school caretaker will forever have my gratitude for stubbing out their sly fags and rushing from the back of the kitchens to rescue us. However, come Monday morning, I would have my revenge. I planned the moment carefully, from about 5pm on the Saturday in fact , I thought about little else, apart that is from when I was endlessly recreating Frank Saul’s winner in the back yard. In the end, I decided against glorious triumphalism, accompanied by loud chanting, flags and finger pointing, not really me. No, I went for smug, profound satisfaction. Eye contact yes, the knowing smile, merely a questioning raised eyebrow. ‘Was there a game on Saturday?’ Secure in the knowledge that as just about the only Spurs fan to openly come out of closet, all eyes would be me, I strolled into the playground on Monday morning, my scarf discreetly visible over the collar of my green blazer, a bright and breezy air with all the joys of spring.

Nothing. Not a thing. Every scenario that the mind of an impressionable 11 year old could conceive had been meticulously rehearsed. Each jibe would be parried by a devastatingly witty riposte followed swiftly by a telling stabbing thrust of my own, right into the heart. ‘All right Fish?’ was the closest I got to any football related conversation. Never mind; for the rest of the week, in the playground games I was Jimmy Robertson, little did they know.

Of course they had all melted away, to next year become QPR fans, as our other local team reached Wembley. Amidst the scuffed leather and dust of playground concrete, I learned a lasting lesson about football. Mine was a true, everlasting passion.

I suspect that the modern crop (or should that be plague?) of Chelsea will be as loyal as my schoolmates, their bonds to the club as temporary as the lunchbreak line. When the Russian gets bored or ends up on a gulag, or this aging team breaks up, as the Park Lane taunted a couple of years ago: ‘Next year, you’ll support Man U”.

Not entirely fair. There are two distinct types of Chelsea fan, pre and post Abramovich, whose attitudes are so disparate, it often sounds as if they support different teams. Most BA fans (Before Abramovich) enjoy their success, justifiably so, sometimes with a little guilt and always grateful for the good times. Because they have been through the rough as well as the smooth, they have a sense of perspective. They are easy to identify because you can have a conversation about football with them.

Some have become disillusioned and alienated as the character of their club has changed beyond recognition. One long-standing Chelsea mate of mine is always up for a bit of banter but at the same time he feels more cut off from his club than ever before. Once a regular visitor to the bridge, he now takes his kids a few times a year, preferring to have a season ticket at his local non-league team, Welling United, where he is welcomed and is part of things.

On the other hand, Chelsea AD fans (Abramovich the Deity) are the most loathsome, arrogant bunch I have ever come across in the 40 years that I have watched football on a regular basis. The divine right of 18^th century French kings to rule as the instrument of God on earth has nothing in comparison with the hubris of these people. Utter superiority is their birthright. Success is a given. History starts in the early 21^st century. Before then, the football world was a primordial soup.

Callers to 606 are perhaps not the most accurate cross-section of the fans of any club, and goodness knows some Spurs idiots have rung up over the years, but the righteous indignation of 2 Chelsea AD fans who rang last season stays with me. One from the Chelsea AD heartlands (Bournemouth) was troubled by his team’s performance. They had only won 5-0. The ‘only’ was his word, not mine. The other lambasted his manager and his squad, rubbish. They were only third. Their manager, 10 games into his job, was not worthy of the post. He had only won the World Cup. The ‘only’ was his word, not mine. Both meant it wholeheartedly, because they really do not know any different.

This supercilious superiority, reflected also in the behaviour of several of their players, creates the most unpleasant atmosphere of the season. I have no intention of going anywhere near the Bridge, and significantly neither does my son who travels all over the country, yet after a couple of years of insults and goading is going to give this one a miss. Chelsea have banned us from bringing flags with the word ‘yid’ but they will not take action when their ghastly fans make with the anti-semitism and the gas noises. Maybe they wish to gas their owner, who knows. Whatever we think about them, you don’t get that with the Arse.

And so to the match itself. We cannot afford the luxury of an attacking formation, like the one against United, and Keane cannot play in midfield. On the other hand, we must not sit back and let them come to us. In other circumstances, Crouch would be a useful target man to hold the ball up as we move from predominantly defensive posture into attack, but with Defoe, who must start, this would mean two up front with potential weakness in the centre of the pitch.

Therefore, I reckon Keane will start with Defoe and drop back into midfield when we lose possession. Jenas must be given a run in midfield alongside Wilson, and Wilson must stay on his feet more. Chelsea’s diamond means we must carefully cover the space in front of our back four. Equally, they are vulnerable to width – please welcome Aaron Lennon! He must stay wide and attack on the flanks but track back on Cole. He’s in for a tough afternoon and that’s where the game could be won or lost.

On the left, Niko looks the most likely but he is seriously unfit. I wonder if Harry is considering a tactical masterstroke by playing someone out of position to cover over there. Will Bentley appear to seek salvation?

A Bad Day for Football

September 16, 2009 / Alan / 2 Comments

A 2 match ban for Eduardo da Silva’s diving in a UEFA Champion’s League qualifier was yesterday dismissed on appeal. Never mind the fate of the Arsenal man, it’s a shocking decision for football.

First things first. Tottenham blog, Arsenal player. Cue abuse. Sorry to disappoint but right now I don’t care about him or their fans, although this is a chance in print to totally refute the accusation levelled at me today that refusing on the grounds of its colour to use the red paperclip proffered in order to keep my papers together is in no way petty or small-minded. Rather, it denotes a man of principle who will go to the barricades to uphold them, or at the very least to the stationery cupboard.

What I care about is the future of our game. I am sick to the back teeth of players diving which, alongside the blatant intimidation of referees by crowding them at every opportunity, is in danger of destroying football.

It is infinitely worse than ever it was in the past. Not only do we have players arcing through mid-air to earn 5.9 for artistic interpretation, we have its more common variant, the cynical exaggeration of feigned distress. The hands up to the face, combined with a comedy fall straight out of a 1920s silent film has become a message in mime to the ref. Hold up one of those dialogue cards, white writing on black: “Look at me, I reckon that’s a sending off, don’t you?” It’s invariably followed closely with a forearm covering a fevered brow as the wronged party lies prostrate and helpless on the turf, which would not be out of place in a De Mille epic, laughable histrionic ham acting everywhere except in the minds of the most gifted footballers on the planet.

Oh the fiend!

For once I have some sympathy with referees. The game is so fast, it’s often nigh on impossible to work out exactly who made contact with who, and when. Our dying swans swoon on cue when some contact, however negligible, has actually been made, so the referee must act, not on the reaction but on his judgement at the moment of impact. No matter that Premier League players are so powerful that they and they alone may defy universal laws of physics. Large men, supremely fit, plunge to the earth when gently tapped on the shoulder or a tug on their shirt hurls them into conflict with gravity itself and they veer down, not sideways.

So if on this occasion referees can be excused from some of the blame, the same cannot be said for the guardians of our fair game. UEFA sit on their ample expense account tuches’s as the game becomes a cheat’s paradise. Then, suddenly, they awake from their slumbers and take action. Two game ban for Eduardo.

Woe is me. He touched me!! Should have borrowed Berba's aliceband

Three things I know about Eduardo. One, he’s a excellent striker. Two, he’s a mug. He dives then winks at the camera. Silly, silly boy. Three, he’s unlucky. Fact is, he did what most strikers would have done in that position and UEFA made an example of him. Sorry, but at last some action has been taken. Cue a spate of hearings on players from around Europe, then eventually even these over-paid and over-hyped dunces would finally get the message.

So what happens? The ban is rescinded on appeal. In one sense, it’s fair on Eduardo because no one else is being punished, but remember, that’s not the point. Last night the UEFA spokesperson was sanguine. They take action, then due process dictates that an independent body take the final decision. The message, he smugly added, is that UEFA do not condone ‘simulation’.

I’ll tell what the message is, my friend. Word is out that cheating, conning and conniving is just fine and dandy, because no matter what you do, no one is going to do anything much about it.

This is an utterly pathetic, inadequate response from emasculated bureaucrats who know nothing about the game and care even less. Football has gradually been improved over the last 20 years not by making any major changes to the shape of the game but by subtly altering the balance between attack and defence, principally by altering the back-pass and offside rules, as well as offering three points for a win. Now, however, decisive and consistent leadership is required.

Get diving out of the game by using television footage to punish offenders retrospectively. They may get away with it during the match but their activities will be recorded and used in evidence against them in the future. Ban them. Then, eventually, it will become a minor element of the game, although it’s foolish to assume it can be eradicated completely. Send this as an instruction to all member countries, who must incorporate this into their own rules and disciplinary procedures.

UEFA’s reaction is a dereliction of their duty towards the good of the game and towards the fans who pay their hard-earned cash each week. And here’s a message to the people who hold the ultimate responsibility, the players themselves. If I want bad acting, I’ll watch Neighbours. I’d prefer a good game of football if you don’t mind, lads. Problem is, many of you do mind. Like little children in the nursery, behind teacher’s back they’ll do anything that they can get away with. You know those green NSPCC Full Stop badges they wear once a year? Full Stop on diving, and UEFA needs to use its authority to put a stop to it. Now.