Premier League

Producers.

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

Another vid; this time Leeds. It does burn, eh? That arrogance, that gulf of apparent indifference. Headsets on, blinkers on, dead souls dreaming of cornerflag dance-moves. Fans? What fans? ‘Banging choon, dis, Lukie!’

But friends we better acknowledge – because it’s surely fact? – that plenty of footballers are good guys (and gals). It’s just the other stuff that makes them seem like mindless twats.

In the last few days I’ve seen two England players – Trent, and Callum Wilson – project some authentic positivity and awareness. The Liverpool man has launched himself with some conviction into the flash but scandalously dumb world of the Academies. (Dumb because the Great Arrogance holds: that riches lie in wait; that the world will be scoured; that selection and development can be shite, because Everybody Who Could Possibly Have a Shot At This, is in the building. Dumb because a zillion players will be cut, with poor preparation and aftercare – hence the Trent Intervention).

Wilson, in #MOTD interview, spoke eloquently and wisely about poverty, exclusion, embarrassment. We do see this and we need to, partly because many of our footballers did come from ‘nothing’. Their background was scruffy and under-privileged. And it’s therefore only right that there are Football Officers at every club, doing real community work. So… how come we see that gulf, so often? Players behaving appallingly or heartlessly or with no feeling for either other people, or for the responsibilities they must know come with their profile? Do they know? Ain’t that part of the Academies’ job?

Lots of players are stupid. Some are genuinely arrogant and uncaring. It’s entirely possible that incident A/B/Z might trigger the concern that many lack any real understanding or attachment to what we the Solidly-Decent Ones might consider to be acceptable, non-negotiable values. Some of this crassness and delusion is learned behaviour, centred on or springing from the Academies and their status. And predicated on mind-scrambling money. Like the pandered elite, these kids really don’t need to care. They know they’re important, because the facilities and the environment infer that. Plus they have sixteen cameras on them, or will have. And some bloke will be thrusting an urgent ipad or a wee whiteboard under their nose(s), and they’ll be told to speak behind their hand, because they hold precious secrets. Everything’s vital; the game-plan, the barnet, the moves.

Truths do lurketh, but this provocatively traduces so much and so many. There are wonderful people working in football at all levels just as there are in cricket or any other sport. So the modelling of behaviours can be magbloodynificent, too. But footballers do seem to behave and/or react disproportionately badly, whether that’s ignoring or not even registering the existence of fans or cheating, faking or routinely and foully abusing officials on or around the pitch. (Bold opinion: footballers are shocking for this. As are managers, of course). Importance and self-importance must play a significant role, here.

Football People on your tellybox are very often lying, manipulating, or at the very least myopic. It’s accepted. Despite the physical impacts and clashes being patently less loaded (and therefore less provocative) than they were, footballers react badly very often, either being dishonestly ‘dramatic’ or plain cynical. Again, fascinatingly unknowable how much of this is bastardised vanity – stay down, roll around a bit, you’re on the telly – and how much tactical cuteness. (Milk it; make it work for you – their fella might get a card). Whatever, the void where the instinct-to-play should be, the ‘get up and crack on’ impulse, never mind the values-thing, is depressingly ever-present.

It’s also unclear how much of the poor behaviour is coached. If Zaha – now substantially reformed – was at one stage the most obvious diver in the Prem… was he coached to do that? Were Kane and Sterling coached to adjust and engineer and feel for ‘contact?’ Did they throttle back on that, somewhat, after Southgate had a word? I suspect that this is more learning-in-the-environment than explicitly instructed, but don’t tell me that strikers don’t get told to ‘go down’ if they feel a touch.

This asks questions of the leading managers: like who can we respect, for their civility? For their fairness?
Klopp is a good man, a Football Man who loves the game, his players and understands Liverpool. He gets most things, he has soul, you suspect, but even he explodes, outrageously at officials – as he did during the Tottenham game. (And don’t go telling me he was provoked. Unacceptable: he almost seemed to concede that by joking about his mid-abuse muscle pull). Pep is generally able to keep a lid on his emotions but does like the occasional incandescent rage. Arteta I find unlovable, for his own, peculiar, deeply-brewed, extravagant inflammations and that dark, pointy vitriol. Plus those strategic ‘break-up-the-game-by-going-down’ rotations. Given the extraordinary profile these guys have, their level of discipline and respect is obviously woeful – not just woeful. This is undoubtedly why the phrase ‘role-model’ has gone from the game – because many of the most central figures are too often an embarrassment.

For me the idea that we need to cut these fellas some slack, because of the intensity and pressure in the game, is cobblers. And ‘passion’ of this sort is not ‘part of the theatre’, (Mr TV Production Geezer), it’s part of the problem. Because, speaking as a sports teacher and coach, I can tell you that young people are influenced, negatively, by what they see. In games lessons – not games! – I have been harangued by kids who cannot accept my fairness and cannot control their emotions. I can think of a young, strong lad who ‘stays down’ for minutes virtually every time he experiences contact. (It’s absolutely hilarious; he will roll and silently fake deep, deeeep agony but it’s also weird… & depressing).

These kids think they are Kane/Sterling/those Gods on the Telly. When it comes to decisions, contention is their kind of default position, not acceptance. They are imagining the cameras, the spotlight, the high-resolution impact and import of this moment.

Let’s re-set. Because there are also moments when the likes of Match of the Day offer a glimpse of decency, social-conscience and intelligence. And may even evidence the care and commitment that can and does come from players – the best of it, away from the limelight. Alexander-Arnold and Wilson impressed me, over the weekend, and they are not alone in giving something back. I doff my flat cap – sincerely. But if we look at football behaviours in general terms, there is an argument that a crucial part of the sportsmanship*, the honour**, maybe even the point, is irretrievably gone. It ain’t coming back.

(For what it’s worth I’m sympathetic to this view, that we compete wholeheartedly, and therefore honestly***, and I register the slippage away with real sadness).

But does this then, overwhelm or preclude all other state-of-the-game hypotheses? No. We may think that in other general terms, football is as good or better than it’s ever been. City under Pep are amongst the most fabulous, watchable sides to have played the sport. Defenders are now more rounded players, more capable players than ever before. (They just can’t defend – lols).

I’m sympathetic to this view, too. Meaning that, spitting blood, I’m being bundled towards another unsatisfactory conclusion, both stylistically and in terms of meaning. The universe now has us where its cheesy, salesy Producers want: between, goddammit, beauty and the beast.

* & **. Yup, I know. Archaic or anachronistic. But also some truth, yes?

*** And yup, I guess I am saying we aren’t competing entirely wholeheartedly if we’re not competing honestly.

We are Town.

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

The universe conspired not only to keep me from this game… but keep me from watching it. No matter. The sound, holistic thrashing this very good Premiership team delivered to our allegedly ordinary League Two side has the ultimately reassuring ring of some Deep Natural Order about it. Rights righted: qualities writ large. But we were right to dream, and dance, and wave our daft fish about. We have qualities, too, from the wonderful, selfless loyalty of our travelling fans to the next-level, humane intelligence of some of our board. On the pitch, outclassed. Off it, as good as anybody. Hands raised in gratitude and pride: we are Town.

Yes we are. Though we moved away, we are still Town. Not unduly conflicted by living all my working life in Wales, boasting Welsh-speaking kids, working in *another sport*, having grown up not just Town but with Town blood on-board. (Mighty Vic Dodsworth, GTFC 1930-something. All-too-briefly, as it turned out, cos crocked. Wee underdogs Manchester United took a chance on him. But crocked). I can’t be the only one who grew up a Proud Something-or-Other and became a Proud Something-Else… as well?

So from my home hamlet in Welsh Wales I’m absolutely buzzing for my home town’s carnival day. Sure I’m medium-gutted I couldn’t get a ticket, and more devastated for soulbro’s who unquestionably deserved them more but still fell short. But all of us know that it’s dead right that season ticket holders and full members got in there first. (4,600 snaffled before you could say “E for B and Stuart Brace”). The club is doing lots of things right on and off the park; Jason Stockwood’s Administrative Army continue to play a blinder around the ethics and issues of running a football club.

You may have heard good things. My understanding is that Stockwood and the Corporate Posse behind the Mariners *really are* those rare beasts the conscious capitalists. They do not separate football activity and/or ‘success’ from work which supports the community and the environment – meaning the town, not just Town. Sure you’ll hear a few of those rather concerningly workshopped soundbites about ‘passionate’ this and that, but there is plainly a gritty commitment in the club hierarchy, as well as a smoothish patina. What the Guardian termed ‘social entrepreneurship’ does appear to have taken hold in a remarkably positive way: methinks those are not words that might traditionally have been associated with this club and this town.

Grimsby’s been a joke, we know that: one that our friend Sacha B-C tried to turn into something. The stereotype of an ugly, dated, litter-strewn, beery, ‘tough’ Northern coastal town will be hard to shift, partly, of course, because these slanders all hold a little truth. The docks did kinda die, waaay back then, after the Cod War. The ‘flyover’/Cleethorpes Road quarter still speaks to the era of closure and hardship and booze and anger on the streets. Much of the walk in to Blundell Park still feels like the scene for a progressive documentary on football hooliganism. But Stockwood and co are smart, willing and aligned against old failings and lingering prejudice. They want better for the town and understand something about the conjoined powers of sport and identity.

You don’t have to be a football historian to be aware of the ridicu-season that GTFC enjoyed, last year. (Whether you are or no, go dig out the record-books, and look at the journey to promotion). The series of extra-time wins to get to the play-off final was extreme sport: thrilling; shocking; unbloodyprecedented – or it felt that way. I was at West Ham (the London Stadium) to see the Mariners splutter to a win. It felt destined; or like one of those few things that really deserve to happen.

For Town to be in another football epic, so soon after, is both fabulous and bewildering. But it also figures. There is a vibe around the place. They have players. The manager is maybe flawed (this is my own view, from a distance, of his tactical vulnerabilities… but I say similar about Gareth Southgate) and yet also wonderfully true and consistent and even-tempered. Philosophical, one might say – like the hierarchy, perhaps? Things have been directed or they have conspired but in short it feels good to support Grimsby Town. They present, in the modern, media-conscious parlance, like a good outfit. In interview, footballers toe the party line, to the point of vacuity, generally. Town players seem to mean this stuff about loving the club.

But Brighton loometh and Brighton are cute. They’ve played more fine footie than most in the division, this year. And yes, that would be the Premier League. (I’m not a subscriber to the view, by the way, that the Prem is that great: it’s surely more that there are great players than any depth of brilliant teams. Tottenham, for the top four? They’ve been shite, for months!) Brighton are bright and well-coached. They have a compelling (and possibly worrying) combination of pace and imagination. They play with both control and urgency. The gaffer may be at Real Madrid (or Liverpool?!?) before you know it. Southampton, they are not.

In that previous round most Town fans concede that though it was one of The Great Days, Town were poor. The God Of Doughtiness that is Waterfall was strangely subdued and the defence porous or even ragged. The Talent that is McAtee was flat. Even Holohan – who gathered himself admirably to convert the two pens – was unable to do that precious, beat-establishing water-carrying thing. One of the Great Wins was also a weird under-achievement.

In one sense this might augur well. Us glass half-fullers will be thinking there’s so-o much more to come from the Mariners that Brighton better look out. Waterfall really is one of the lower-league gods – absolutely no disrespect intended, he’s well-capable of winning any game, at either end of the park. The keeper, crucially perhaps, is generally solid. Town can play, in and through midfield. McAtee has a wonder goal in him. Plus it’s the cup, the Town fans will be Really Quite Something and let’s face it, it’s a free hit: the fella Hurst is already, if metaphorically, holding the trophy.

The reality and even the coverage will be all about the support. Masses of grinning Grimbarians wielding inflatable fish; for the second time in the campaign, on the South Coast. Heavy mileage, who cares? The overwhelming majority of those in the away end love their home and their club deeply. They are Town.

But look there’s no time for or value in existential guilt about who’s real and legitimate: zillions of us aren’t or can’t be full-on authentic supporters. I follow on the Twitters but rarely get to games because of the 340 miles twixt venues. I’ll be coaching cricket, believe it or not, whilst the game’s on(!) You, meanwhile, wherever you are, could get behind The Grimsby for one day and join in with that woolly stuff. The romance. The feeling that Town can register something beyond football. Go with the daft magic about Harry the Haddock and Harry Clifton (one of our own). Tell your mates that them bloody fish were rainbow trout, first time around. Raise a glass, maybe. The Lads may need us.

Holding players.

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

So United, then. One-nil winners against a West Ham side who pressured hard and may have deserved an equaliser, late-on. Rashford’s exhilarating goal with a rare, committed thunk past the keeper being ‘the difference’.

But quality-wise, there was little difference. In the first ten both Casemiro and Eriksen showed glimpses of their rarified best, either threading or spraying fabulous passes into feet, offering real hope that the mythical(?) corner into Team Flow and Sumptuous United-ness might yet be turned. But no. Casemiro looked statuesque and composed at times, and Eriksen was goodish and as central to any football as anyone, but this was again a relatively disappointing scramble.

Up top Ronaldo continued to seem shrunken in every respect: playing in a different game to his alleged partners Elanga – who again looked like a reserve team player thrown in during some flu epidemic – and Rashford, who only fitfully raised the hopes of the home support.

How the universe wishes that Ar Marcus could really blossom! From this occasionally wonderful, pacy, watchable, worthy local lad into the full package – the genuine United-level striker. A power header and a run or two was again not enough to convince. He was the pick of the strike force but Gary Neville’s Man of the Match Award was staggeringly generous; another sign that the universe *really does* want him to do well.

Rashford has a lot going for him; given that pace, dynamism and his substantial experience, you wonder why he remains so ‘up and down’. And if that wastefulness and inconsistency will always suppress his value to the cause. I fear it may: that he will always alternate between boyish profligacy and eye-catching vim. Cruel. Elanga was rightly withdrawn: the team had played poorly but he looked a misfit. Ronaldo barely had a meaningful kick.

The generally fair and frequently insightful Neville pointed out that a United midfield of Casemiro, Eriksen and Fernandes is a statement of culture and belief, from Ten Hag. Belief in quality, artfulness and in direction. They are all positive, creative players, essentially, in there to control possession and develop threat, as opposed to stem the flow from the opposition. (O-kaay, Casemiro has been holding but his lack of pace and inclination to bite marks him out as a passer – a ‘player’). This relates to both the manager’s (Dutch, Total Football-tastic) worldview and the United Way. It may not be ATTACK ATTACK ATTACK but it IS forward-looking and kinda generous.

Fernandes has now had a sustained dip in form. He’s become irritating and irritated; unable to flash even short passes to their target; easily distracted into verbals and resentful of every perceived injustice. Energetic, yes, but now mouthy and weirdly inconsistent. Battling against his previous: that notion that he is (or was) the King of Old Trafford, Playmaker and Leader of the Surge.

West Ham, particularly in the case of the consistently excellent Rice, stymied United’s rhythm. The Hammers often looked better with the ball, in fact, or at least had relatively convincing spells of possession. What the visitors couldn’t do was create clear-cut chances. United again could rarely string more than about five passes together without handing the ball back to the visitors; meaning the match was largely mediocre.

Dalot and Martinez were MU’s best players; both intervening aggressively and decisively throughout the game. The latter is likely to be a much-loved fixture in the side for some years, I suspect, for his hearty indomitability. De Gea looked solid. Maguire did ok, strolling around in that particular way of his, but there were moments when the heart of the United defence seemed about to unhinge and some of this seemed to be about his positioning and generous – that is to say trawler-like – turning-circle. (I may traduce the fella. But that wholly admirable composure on the ball does feel compromised by his capacity to find himself exposed). Varane and Martinez will be the first-choice partnership, in a four, surely?

The manager spoke well, after the event. He’s not sugar-coating the amount of work there is to be done and he plainly has the Ronaldo issue/ego in hand. The world superstar has clearly been emphatically bollocked for his recent petulance and knows now he will not walk into (even) this misfiring side. The expectation must be that he will go, on receipt of the first decent offer – go or retire.

For the second time in a week, Ten Hag felt compelled to shut up shop, as West Ham dominated the later stages. McTominay and Fred are a ver-ry different combination to Eriksen and Casemiro: in short they are nowhere near as good… but the gaffer hopes they might do that manning-of-the-hatches thing. You could see McTominay working in a rampaging United side – a Fergie team – as the tenacious clatterer behind inspirational flyers, but his DNA is closer to Celtic or Rangers than Man City or Bayern. He may survive if United inherit a new clutch of irresistible forwards: if they don’t (or Sancho/Rashford/Anthony continue to underachieve), the tall Scot will remain a squad player, on merit. Or go, possibly, alongside his fire-fighting Brazilian comrade.

A cold view of Manchester United might be that this mighty club still has too many players unworthy of the badge. Too many who look like Academy players-plus, journeymen, or guys who simply lack the mentality to live at that level, in that shirt. The manager appears to have a handle on this and is gradually re-building. He knows what they lack and has the authority and strategic intelligence to nudge this intimidating project towards authenticity and contention. West Ham are a well-organised, mid-table outfit with minimal cutting edge. United just about held out.

Shed and watershed.

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

From bowlingatvincent.com, April 2015. So a taster. But a relevant one, yes?

Van Gaal’s post-game MOTD ‘interview’, as well as being top TV, felt like a watershed moment. The fella was serene and confrontational; he was brimful with something pret-ty powerful, despite having seen his side get beat, predictably(?) 1-0. Given United were Mourinho-ed in the most classically depressing way (having dominated possession but been caught by a brilliant counter) we might have expected something more downbeat.

But no. Instead there was something mildly erotic about him. He was a Dutch stallion – or a tulip in full lustre. He bossed it, in a non-violently pugilistic kindofaway, his mischief veering slightly towards the merciless as Guy Mowbray scrambled.

That’s good… that you are interested
may go down as the best, driest, eyeball-to-eyeballiest comeback in Premier League history.

LVG was not so much in his pomp as reinventing the genre, because he knew his side had grown up, in public, in a way that validated him and the club. Mourinho had won the points but United had won easily on points. Without being flawless, the reds had played all the football and carried the spirit. Without scoring they had made the statement that they not only had intent, but also quality – kosher, challenge-for-the-title quality. For periods the champions were made to look ordinary; hence the gaffer’s dander.

United fans lapped up both performances. Okaaay we were 30 per cent gutted that Mourinho’s turgid default position had done over our ambitions but 70 per cent of those expressing a preference would call this a significant moral victory. Get real? Maybe, but there is nothing so real as confidence and this display will surely contribute further to the freeing up of van Gaal’s side and mark another positive step in the much-remarked-upon transition.

Nothing takes place in a vacuum. Mourinho has to take an interest in both the quality of his own team’s humour – see 89 previous blogs about all that – and that of his major rivals.

He can profess or pretend to be the owner of the blackest heart, with the coolest, clearest aspiration; he can perfect the art of ruthless execution; he can win serially and undeniably through being the best and most proactive manager in world football but can he really be impervious to the feeling that there’s something missing? (Short answer – YES!)

But does he never wish he could break himself out of his (own) BIG GAME PHILOSOPHY? Go on Jose – leg it down the street naked – live a little! ‘Ave a right old go – folks will love you for it!

Of course he is loved. Idolised. And rightly in the sense that he is a true, modern great. I fail to see, though, how Chelsea supporters could really, genuinely, cross-their-hearts-and-hope-to-die(edly) love either the means or the manner of their victory on Saturday. Or more exactly how they could love it wholly.

Maybe you could argue that Park the Bus Plus is an elite and legitimate form of footie – in truth you could hardly argue against that. However it is so patently dispiriting as a spectacle and (is this too far?) such a slight on the game that football lovers view it with some contempt. Chelsea and Mourinho are hated more (again) this year because the feeling grows that despite being blessed with attacking genius they will resort to asphyxiation-mode whenever threatened. Meaning crunch matches are… reduced; meaning the soul of something is lost, forgotten or betrayed. The Chelsea project is unloved, generally, because it smacks of business being done.

At which point half the universe is spluttering obscenities about MU being every bit as big a business. Of course it is. The Premier League is an appalling, monstrous, cynical, anti-meritocratic business. But some teams – some managers – are still in touch with the romance at the heart of all this.

Look it’s a fact that United approached this (away) fixture with obvious and creditable boldness. Even though they knew this would suit Chelsea. Even though this may play to the strengths of Mourinho’s side in this draw-will-do-nicely moment – van Gaal opted for boldness.

Amongst his reasons would be the good form of his players and the relative strength of his attack over his defence; United are buoyant, so they look to go on the offensive. If that suggests a strategic choice to attack in part because of defensive frailties this hardly devalues the philosophy. It’s the kind of gamble that infuses sport with glory and with life.

And so to the match. The stats on possession (30-70 in United’s favour) were little short of remarkable, even allowing for the re-engagement of P-the-B-P mode from the home side. Shaw’s surges were perhaps the most memorable feature from a necessarily sharp encounter.

There was controversy – again inevitably – when Falcao was fouled immediately prior to the decisive break. (The Colombian was maybe not as strong as he might have been but Terry did bundle through the back before Hazard profited.) And yes, De Gea did handle marginally outside the box, meaning Jose could again drop into character for another episode of Moanfest Revisited. But it was all effectively United.

Half the United fans exploded when it seemed Rooney had arced one left-footed into the top corner. McNair of all people clearly felt that he was destined to score a screamer from thirty yards. Passes were thrashed forward with confidence. Chelsea were all but dismissed, for considerable periods. But yeh, okay, United got beat.

On MOTD Phil Neville tried not to gush, or gurn with grievance and almost managed it. He tried, in fact, to say some of the big-hearted stuff I’ve just so foolishly said. The sagacious Mr R Savage chopped him off at the knees, mind you, with his own profound assertion that any (critical) judgement on Chelsea’s approach meant nothing in the context of another win. (All I’ll add on that is that van Gaal’s horny disposition thereafter surely personifies the opposite argument – or at least renders the Savage view characteristically simplistic.)

So is it true, this idea that only the winning of it matters? How long have you got?

Fact one (Robbie/Jose); this season is done – it was before the fixture – so look ahead. Fact two; United’s forward transition may come to threaten the Champions soon enough (and this is therefore relevant.) Fact three; (in any case) there are untold zillions who only understand football as a game where trying to score… matters, is the essence of what you do. Fact four; (in any case) is there not an imperative to entertain, to enter into the sport?

I know… I godda be joking. All that matters is the winning.

(Discuss?)

Shed and watershed.

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

Van Gaal’s post-game MOTD ‘interview’, as well as being top TV, felt like a watershed moment. The fella was serene and confrontational; he was brimful with something pret-ty powerful, despite having seen his side get beat, predictably(?) 1-0. Given United were Mourinho-ed in the most classically depressing way (having dominated possession but been caught by a brilliant counter) we might have expected something more downbeat.

But no. Instead there was something mildly erotic about him. He was a Dutch stallion – or a tulip in full lustre. He bossed it, in a non-violently pugilistic kindofaway, his mischief veering slightly towards the merciless as Guy Mowbray scrambled.

That’s good… that you are interested
may go down as the best, driest, eyeball-to-eyeballiest comeback in Premier League history.

LVG was not so much in his pomp as reinventing the genre, because he knew his side had grown up, in public, in a way that validated him and the club. Mourinho had won the points but United had won easily on points. Without being flawless, the reds had played all the football and carried the spirit. Without scoring they had made the statement that they not only had intent, but also quality – kosher, challenge-for-the-title quality. For periods the champions were made to look ordinary; hence the gaffer’s dander.

United fans lapped up both performances. Okaaay we were 30 per cent gutted that Mourinho’s turgid default position had done over our ambitions but 70 per cent of those expressing a preference would call this a significant moral victory. Get real? Maybe, but there is nothing so real as confidence and this display will surely contribute further to the freeing up of van Gaal’s side and mark another positive step in the much-remarked-upon transition.

Nothing takes place in a vacuum. Mourinho has to take an interest in both the quality of his own team’s humour – see 89 previous blogs about all that – and that of his major rivals.

He can profess or pretend to be the owner of the blackest heart, with the coolest, clearest aspiration; he can perfect the art of ruthless execution; he can win serially and undeniably through being the best and most proactive manager in world football but can he really be impervious to the feeling that there’s something missing? (Short answer – YES!)

But does he never wish he could break himself out of his (own) BIG GAME PHILOSOPHY? Go on Jose – leg it down the street naked – live a little! ‘Ave a right old go – folks will love you for it!

Of course he is loved. Idolised. And rightly in the sense that he is a true, modern great. I fail to see, though, how Chelsea supporters could really, genuinely, cross-their-hearts-and-hope-to-die(edly) love either the means or the manner of their victory on Saturday. Or more exactly how they could love it wholly.

Maybe you could argue that Park the Bus Plus is an elite and legitimate form of footie – in truth you could hardly argue against that. However it is so patently dispiriting as a spectacle and (is this too far?) such a slight on the game that football lovers view it with some contempt. Chelsea and Mourinho are hated more (again) this year because the feeling grows that despite being blessed with attacking genius they will resort to asphyxiation-mode whenever threatened. Meaning crunch matches are… reduced; meaning the soul of something is lost, forgotten or betrayed. The Chelsea project is unloved, generally, because it smacks of business being done.

At which point half the universe is spluttering obscenities about MU being every bit as big a business. Of course it is. The Premier League is an appalling, monstrous, cynical, anti-meritocratic business. But some teams – some managers – are still in touch with the romance at the heart of all this.

Look it’s a fact that United approached this (away) fixture with obvious and creditable boldness. Even though they knew this would suit Chelsea. Even though this may play to the strengths of Mourinho’s side in this draw-will-do-nicely moment – van Gaal opted for boldness.

Amongst his reasons would be the good form of his players and the relative strength of his attack over his defence; United are buoyant, so they look to go on the offensive. If that suggests a strategic choice to attack in part because of defensive frailties this hardly devalues the philosophy. It’s the kind of gamble that infuses sport with glory and with life.

And so to the match. The stats on possession (30-70 in United’s favour) were little short of remarkable, even allowing for the re-engagement of P-the-B-P mode from the home side. Shaw’s surges were perhaps the most memorable feature from a necessarily sharp encounter.

There was controversy – again inevitably – when Falcao was fouled immediately prior to the decisive break. (The Colombian was maybe not as strong as he might have been but Terry did bundle through the back before Hazard profited.) And yes, De Gea did handle marginally outside the box, meaning Jose could again drop into character for another episode of Moanfest Revisited. But it was all effectively United.

Half the United fans exploded when it seemed Rooney had arced one left-footed into the top corner. McNair of all people clearly felt that he was destined to score a screamer from thirty yards. Passes were thrashed forward with confidence. Chelsea were all but dismissed, for considerable periods. But yeh, okay, United got beat.

On MOTD Phil Neville tried not to gush, or gurn with grievance and almost managed it. He tried, in fact, to say some of the big-hearted stuff I’ve just so foolishly said. The sagacious Mr R Savage chopped him off at the knees, mind you, with his own profound assertion that any (critical) judgement on Chelsea’s approach meant nothing in the context of another win. (All I’ll add on that is that van Gaal’s horny disposition thereafter surely personifies the opposite argument – or at least renders the Savage view characteristically simplistic.)

So is it true, this idea that only the winning of it matters? How long have you got?

Fact one (Robbie/Jose); this season is done – it was before the fixture – so look ahead. Fact two; United’s forward transition may come to threaten the Champions soon enough (and this is therefore relevant.) Fact three; (in any case) there are untold zillions who only understand football as a game where trying to score… matters, is the essence of what you do. Fact four; (in any case) is there not an imperative to entertain, to enter into the sport?

I know… I godda be joking. All that matters is the winning.

(Discuss?)

The Campaign for Gentlemanly Conduct. Sound familiar?

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

And so it goes on, dispiritingly. The interminable flopping and falling and ‘drawing’ of precious contact. The denial of the *actual* aim of the sport – which is to stick the ball in the net – through the cynical, life-blood-sucking phoney faint; because percentage-wise, penno’s pay.

Plus, (part XIV to-the-power-of-b-over-z-squared; The Case Against) there’s all this holding in the box. Not just a sly gathering of a corner of nylon but an absolute wrestle, as though there are no cameras, no ref and no reason moral or otherwise why you can’t try to bully the striker to a standstill or hoik him away from the arc of the ball; bizarre as well as appalling.

As if it wasn’t enough to poison the allegedly beautiful game on the park, reaction to this stuff brings out the worst in us all. (By the way, the thought does strike that we’ve gotten away lightly so far in terms of violence erupting either in the stands, between players or even against the referee but surely the time will come when a particularly enraging example of diving or holding will dangerously or tragically combust a cup-tie/relegation decider? Meaning we really do need to start dealing with this. By the way.)

There’s an unholy and delusional matrix around this that points us towards low expectation or worse; I find myself counting down the paragraphs before the dreary conclusion that ‘we get what we deserve’. I say this because following any incident fans as well as managers tend to divide so crudely, illogically and indeed pathetically on party or club lines. It’s embarrassing in a bad (unreasonable) way and it’s anti-sport.

In the case of Shawcross yesterday – that same Shawcross who molested his opponent relentlessly, pre the penalty, presumably not just to prevent him from attacking the ball but also in the hope (the hope!) that he may eventually strike out and be banished from the field – the incident was clearly and correctly dealt with by the officials. And yet on phone-ins and elsewhere the Stoke Faithful were bawling their grievances against that decision. We know that Mark Hughes (great footballer, depressingly flawed human) traditionally sets the bar shockingly low post-incident, but Sparky led the way on this, excelling himself whilst shamelessly ‘protecting his player’.
Hughes effectively said both Shawcross and more ludicrously Moses had been sinless. Whilst we can all appreciate the urge to support your tribe this went right past scandalous economy with the truth. For Hughes to try to make an intelligent argument against the unanswerable realities that Shawcross tugged and held absurdly long and that Moses shamelessly dived was, as an Australian cricket captain might have said, distinctly average.

If we choose to look for them there are always pro and contra-complexities. Moses was touched by the hand of the defender; Shawcross was by no means alone in his transgression across the boundaries of hugging. Therefore Hughes could formulate his apology, his simulation of a theory. But more broadly and more subtly, is the art of defending not about big clunky guys baulking shifty and spry opponents and should the spirit of things then not enable a kind of levelling of the playing field? How else could Shawcross (say) compete against Di Maria (say?)

This is of course cobblers. For any single offence, a single judgement is being made, not a philosophically inviolable summing up of the nature of things football. Do something outside the laws – get punished. Complexity comes (and ideally goes) through the official’s instinctive reading of the motivation of players at the moment in question and cross-reference of the rules. Referee: was that defender in making minor contact doing everything to avoid contact? So choose. Was that attacker only ever interested in drawing a penalty? So blow and reach for the yellow. These are a couple of the areas of difficulty, questions which launch a zillion unseemly appeals each weekend.

The fact that time and again the same few offences stir the nation to a Neanderthal fury should be a clue to something but if the cause is generally evident the path to resolution is fraught. In fact there is no path. Refs good and bad are left floundering under abuse.

Why? Essentially because honesty has gone walkabout. These players, these coaches are sporting superstars we cannot trust. They will neither accept the truth nor respect the authority charged with judging what is true. Set aside for the moment the fact that mistakes are bound to be made by those who make the calls; players and managers have made the game ungovernable and they should be deeply, deeply ashamed of the fact. They forget that they are role models; they forget that they are amongst the most fortunate; they forget that the real glory of sport centres upon competitiveness with honour. Or does it?

Does cheating matter? Does backing your side at all costs, even if reality and Alan Shearer contradict you matter? Or is it merely the inevitable result of awesomely high profiles and awesome TV revenues… and anyways, the next game’s here, so get real and get over it, right?

Are these merely the contemporary facts? That the game is simply framed differently, so that the respect of your opponent is an utter irrelevance to the current player? Is that right, is that how it is – or just some weird code nudging us towards giving up on sportsmanship?

I know how much of this sounds, how uncool and unsustainable it seems to invoke traditional virtues but still I consider myself more of a contemporary geezer than some dreamer of halcyon dreams. As such I call for modern solutions as well as a common return to a sense of what’s fair and right. Fat chance of the latter but no excuses now for not establishing immediate assistance to the referee from video review; retrospective guidance and where necessary punishment for acts of cheating under a beefed-up Ungentlemanly Conduct law, overseen by a small, expert panel.*

However viscerally any of us feel the drift to amorality it’s no good merely mithering on that. That language may no longer be intelligible so let’s characterise the state we’re in as a challenge. One where the chief protagonists are chiefly bent, either on some short-cut to victory, or just bent. No option then but to dictate; impose short sharp shocking doodahs – meaning bans for weeks rather than meaningless fines – and hope that in their inaction they might stop to think.

*Those who haven’t read me on this before may not be aware I’ve been promoting this notion that an expanded Ungentlemanly Conduct law could be used to penalise divers/cheats/fellahs who just did something that ain’t good for the game. I think it could work.

Triumph and tears.

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

Liverpool City. Had everything. Goals, sunshine, vitriol, clangers, minimal Yaya. Premier-quality cheating. It was splattered with incidents and raw with that uncomfortable mix of poignancy and venom. My response is loaded and maybe lumpen in the way of the match. It’s bullet-pointed again – immediate.

• I’m fascinated and appalled by Suarez to the point where I don’t really want to go there… and yet must. But not first. But been thinking about the man a fair bit. He’s plainly dysfunctional – yeh, I think that’s the word. Dysfunctional.
• Happier thoughts… Sterling’s opening goal. Was this so brilliant that it confirmed him as an England World Cup starter? Was that composure evidence of such fabulous growth in his game that he must leap to the front of the wide player’s queue? Many would think so. I’ve been and remain just a tad concerned that he may in that real moment – the bona fide competitive international game – shrink back into Walcott/Lennon(?)/Ox(?) mode. He has something of the junior flyer about him that concerns me but he was certainly influential in this the biggest game of the Premiership season so far. We know he would run at people in the World Cup but would he do it with real belief or would he be as inconsistent and ultimately wasteful as the eight zillion other Boy Wonders who have disappointed in recent times?
• Whatever, Sterling will go to Brazil (now) and he will probably (now) be ahead of the fella who’s got closest in the last season or two to delivering – Townsend. Once there I hope Sterling/Townsend will be encouraged to both hug the touchlines and dart central. In other words get involved/get plenty of precious touches/be influential.
• Sturridge will of course also travel. But which Sturridge? The sullen, frankly greedy geezer who makes too many bad football choices (because he’s greedy) or the unplayably good finisher who finishes so devastatingly often because… he’s greedy (for it?) Today he was ordinary – as he has been for the last month. Saving it up for Italy, hopefully.
• Incidentally I squirmed a little when I saw that bloke Clattenberg centre-stage today. He’s a little greedy for it too, is he not?
• Inevitably, there were ‘decisions.’ Clattenberg appeared to be avoiding making positive calls until the relative safety of the final few minutes, where he felt able to dismiss Henderson for his tired (o je-sus I can’t get… there) lunge. Marginal in the sense that there was no spite in the challenge but Henderson did jump in there with studs high. So red.
• Prior to this – count ‘em? – there were any number of appeals for pens, all turned away. Suarez, Silva and Zabaleta all ‘made the most’ of things. Suarez fell most obviously into the Shameful Outrage category and therefore he gets no sympathy from me for later incidents that may in isolation have been judged in his favour. I know that ain’t logical but a) that’s how us humans work –Clattenburg too? And b) the Uruguayan should have been red-carded for his most nauseatingly OTT effort.
• I do wonder if Suarez – who presumably believes himself innocent(?) – might think ‘bugger this feragameasoldiers lichke’ and actually go to Real, where he may think there is less outrage to contend with. (Plusses/minuses; La Liga refs and defences are even worse but things feel less judgemental.)
• I would miss ar Luis – about as much as Sturridge would, I reckon – though less than Liverpool FC. The number 7 is one of the best forwards in world footie… but one of the worst humans. He made the game ungovernable.
• Okay. I exaggerate.
• Final word. He’s magic but his ‘antics’ are a total, total disgrace. I think there is again a case for retrospective punishment or would be if the machinery was in place. (See ‘The Campaign for Gentlemanly Conduct’ vols 1-265).
• The game though; Liverpool were magnificent and irresistible again for most of the first half, playing both with authority and composure and also swiftly counterattacking. They mix it up; chase and run as well as pass all around. Generally though, they play with pace… and this feels threatening, especially with that crowd on board.
• That crowd by the way bore and bears them on, towards what Stevie G will no doubt privately be calling the title they deserve – they being the players, the club and supporters live and sadly departed. The skipper rightly gathered his men to collectivise spirits for the final push. They were told in no uncertain terms that there must be no ‘fucking slips’. The implications – powerful and maybe contradictory ones – being that the title belongs to them but they must battle invincibly to the fateful end.
• How wonderful that sport can be so huge.
• There are almost unbearably rich and tender emotions around the Hillsborough thing. The tragedy itself, the awful nature of events, plus the additional, cruel travesties which may yet transform how the majority of the (tabloid-reading?) public view our allegedly world-class police. There is much bitterness in this beautiful charge towards destiny.
• City came back. Silva suddenly flowered as Liverpool sat off. I lost a few friends on twitter by suggesting that the Reds wilted under the first meaningful pressure for 20 years – somewhat uncalled for perhaps but the point remains. The bitter enemy Manchester United have had to carry the burden of being title favourites and the team everyone wants to beat for an age. Liverpool dealt rather poorly with the rising threat to their first Premier League crown. City deserved to draw level and looked more likely to win it.
• Then, 80-odd minutes in, just about the finest defender in the league – Kompany – ballsed things up completely and Coutinho scored against the run of play.
• The rest was run-of-the-mill agony. For everyone.
• The roar at the final peep from Mr Clattenburg carried with it both triumph… and tears.

Contact.

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

This is not all Ashley Young’s fault, this current malaise. The silky-skilled Manchester United forward is not unique in his thoroughbred cynicism, his (by Premiership standards) quietly coiffured amorality. Ashley – if he possesses the capacity to process complicated thoughts – thinks, poor love, that he’s just doing his job; skinning the full-back. So he drives for that magic line delineating the extent of the defender’s hopes. Should he breach it – and thereby enter the (effective) no tackle zone that is the penalty box, Ashley’s only thought is to win a spot kick. He’s not, some imagine, all that bothered about scoring, such is the miserly fixation seemingly automatically engaged once that limey watershed is crossed. Ashley (and nearly every other Premier League striker?) just wants to ‘draw contact,’ to win a penno, to collect the prize. And often he does.

In my view – admittedly a soulfully aromatic, moisture-affected one – this very deeply negative approach to attacking play is in itself an offence of a sort, though I admit not one that we can reasonably prosecute. Yet it’s clearly prevalent in the professional game. Top Players get near the box and their interest turns from goals to penalties – symbolically from gold to faeces. In a moment they succumb, these solid pro’s; rather than instinctively flashing past an opponent or two and gleefully, innocently, heartily smashing home, they become weirdly obsessed by the feet or body position of retreating defenders, so as to feel for a questionably dangled or interjected leg. A practice that if it was only a metaphor for the ways of the modern world might be poetically and justly resonant. However, as a fact of sporting life – even allowing for an understanding of the daftness of our ‘seriousness’ about sport – this spirit-killing reflex does matter, in both a corporeal, ie. de-mystified points-on-the-board kindofaway and an ethical sense. Because mean-spiritedness erodes joy and the expression of talent as well as helping bad guys to win.

Yesterday, in an allegedly crucial match against Aston Villa, Young claimed a penalty which set the Champions on their way. He gathered and then set; he waited and he waltzed and he drew; then he trailed a foot for contact with a defender plainly conscious of (but perhaps not entirely athletically/dexterously responsive enough to?) Ashley’s intention to throw himself. When Young either felt or was sure he was about to feel said contact some believe he launched, shamelessly, hilarious, nauseatingly, embarrassingly high and utilised that slightly rolling airborne gait he adds in for er… kicks. Or maybe for added ‘authenticity’ – the notion presumingly being that heavy contact is likely to result in dynamic distortions of a roll-about sort. And the ref pointed. Rooney, despite being fascinatingly poor for almost the entire match, notched from the twelve.

This is not all Ashley Young’s fault, this ‘debate’. But that was. In my personal revolutionary court he is guilty of a disgrace against the spirit of everything I can think of and I want to bawl at him and squirt lemon juice in his eyes. I want to demand answers and put things right immediately if not sooner… but how?

Whether or not Young actually practices what are perceived by many as his theatrical dives is a medium-interesting diversion here. I doubt that he or anyone else would do so in a public environment and shame on any club or manager or coach who actually presides over or witnesses such a rehearsal. Do we see him then safely in front of a full-length bedroom mirror, givin’-it-the-Tom-Daley’s before retiring to beddybyes? Is the length and breadth of the country sub-tectonically active Friday nights with the repeated dull thuds of similarly repellently prostrate strikers? I fear it may be, but the issue of whether the actual incidents on the telly are even provably-actually ‘dives’ is perhaps more relevant, being central to the concept of judging how and what to do as a result. For surely something has to be done about cheating in football?

Cheating is an emotive word of course. But how else are we to describe deception and manifest abuse of the spirit of the game? Hardened Pro’s might be less than moved by some woolly argument against idealised sportsmanship but even they have to concede that deception – conning the referee – is outside the laws. But because of the general low levels of honesty and respect for authority amongst players and shockingly one-eyed appreciation of issues arising from both fans and managers, the broad range of matters predicated around truthfulness, honour and sportsmanship in which this foul nugget of theatricality is set remain ungoverned. The matrix remains stolidly, amorphously powerless; an infuriatingly noisy flux. We need change.

Players and clubs must buy in to a move towards positive action but selfishness and rank myopia have typically got in the way of progress. Individuals representing clubs have generally howled about particular offences against their team rather than make any contribution to the increasingly necessary debate. Managers in particular rarely envisage anything which might generally elevate levels of sportsmanship, being far too busy calling for other, more immediately ‘relevant’ improvements, which may, incidentally advance their particular agenda or redress an injustice to their side. Plus nobody seems to want to – or have the courage to? Or be foolish and uncool enough to? – unashamedly claim the moral high ground. It’s easy enough – and right to – call for goal-line technology and use of TV reviews but more problematic, apparently, to call on the game to substantially re-negotiate aspects of broadly moral concern.

I have felt for some years that if it is necessary to implement or invent new rules to improve sportsmanship in football then so be it. If it does not work to use or extend the Ungentlemanly Conduct rule to encourage honesty or penalise dishonesty then fine; write a better law. Clearly there is a case for legislating against – for example – diabolical contempt for referees and diving or otherwise faking to gain advantage. (Etc.) Clearly something like the establishment of a small panel of informed and respected ex-players or similar charged with judging controversial incidents retrospectively might be helpful. Particularly if it was known that they had the facility to uphold spiritual early-footie-truths like respect and sporting behaviour through the application of meaningful punishments for serious transgression. If The Game had decided that other whiter-than-white lines of focus had to be drawn – lines against fraudulence and cynicism – and that players had to regard them as effective law and part of football itself then high-standard aspirations might be achievable. In short, cheats might not prosper – or would likely prosper less.

It is possible to improve things; even in footie, with its scandalous/wonderful/natural/psychotic tribalism and its capacity to crassly swamp intelligent thought. Players could be ‘caught’ whilst cheating or intending to cheat. And they could be banned… for weeks, if necessary.

Ashley Young is not to blame entirely. In fact perhaps the predictably growing outrage, the Young-gateism of this depressingly common moment speaks as loudly of us and our weaknesses as it does of him, the winner, the sinner. This is not, however, an argument for missing out on an opportunity to spring-clean the fusty cupboards of our national sport.

Well, go on then

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

So the Premier League allegedly got going yesterday. But pardon me… who, exactly played? Liverpool/Arsenal? The one in mid-possibIe ascent, the other mid-possible turmoil – King Kenny having undoubtedly revitalised the ‘pool, but Wenger looking increasingly lined and drawn with Goonercares.

I confess to having plugged in to MOTD rather more deeply under a blanket than might have been the case if it felt like the Premier League had started. Given the nature of the (few) fixtures both in terms of likely quality and scale, it was no wonder the 3 Wise Men in Generally Shiny Shirts and Lots of Black seemed disinclined to animate the thing. Of course one of these aperitifs before City/United/Chelsea/arguably Tottingham legitimise the menu could have proved energising to the project. The wounded magnificence of Liverpool; the frilly glam that is QPR? They both predictably disappointed. If any side brought a smidge of class to the day… it was probably Bolton. Nuff said?

There seems to have been an elementary cock-up with the scheduling – one that is entirely appropriate to the smug hegemony of PL ‘presence’. They think they’re the unchallenged best, these folks – why else would they offer such an uninspiring entree? The fundamentals of earning the right to an audience, perhaps wanting to increase that audience, appear to be as irrelevant as fair ticket prices.

Depressingly though, it may be that despite the sombre mood and the real difficulties many look destined to face, this absurd balloon-thin carnival may continue to be the receptacle for the nations deluded passions. The thought strikes me –no pun intended – that the moment yesterday when alleged hard man and thug Joey Barton yanks Gervinho up (thuggishly) and then, having received a girly slap, drops shamelessly to the ground in order to get his assailant (I mean fellow professional) sent off, is appropriate, in its cheap, amoral, ludicrous way to the times.

Perhaps that’s how we should understand this new beginning.