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Commencing the descent

21 Nov

Ole Gunnar Solskjaer might look like the sort of man who would walk in on his wife in bed with another man and gently announce “I’ll take myself off to the pub then”.  Reaching past them both to grab his jacket before gingerly treading towards the door.  But this is of course a nonsense.  The devilment in Solskjaer was clear to see as far back as 02/03, when Fergie stuck him out on the right wing to piss Becks off.  Solskjaer enjoyed a glorious half-season kicking the bejesus out of premier league left-backs.  It was as though the track rabbit had pulled a 180 and started lamping the greyhounds.

He’s an easy target at the moment though is old Ole Gunnar, and not without some justification.  Along with Gareth Southgate, he holds one of the two great managerial offices of state in this country.  Yet neither had so much as an ounce of pedigree when they showed up on interview day.  Molde, Cardiff and Middlesboro?  Places you could well believe were twinned with each other, but breeding grounds for the United and England jobs?  “Never put in temporary charge a man who, four wins down the line, you don’t want public opinion to force you into giving the role full time”, you might think. 

And yet, when all said and done, for two seasons Solskjaer acquitted himself well.  After the face-down-in-the-water debacle of the Moyes regime, the weirdness of Van Gaal and the misery of Mourinho, Solskjaer was a ship-steadying force for good.  A 3rd place finish in his first full season followed by 2nd place last time around (above Klopp, above Chelsea).  This is about as good as any sane United fan could expect.


There’s a touch of the Insulate Britains about Solskjaer’s reign at Old Trafford.  Initially dismissed as a bit of a clown, his sheer resolve gained admiration in some quarters while driving others to the brink.  Solskjaer’s had his hands glued to Sir Matt Busby Way for nearly 3 seasons now, and every time you thought some bloke in a Ford transit van was about to violently knock his block off, he pulls through with another three points out of absolutely nowhere.

United’s ability to come from behind under Solskjaer has been really quite something.  The saucy red comeback boys have won a scarcely credible nineteen times from losing positions during his three-year tenure.  In many respects, the fortitude is to be admired.  But, as the saying goes, the superior pilot uses his superior judgement to avoid situations that require the use of his superior skill.  There’s not much glamour in securing a two-goal lead in the first thirty minutes of a game and seeing it out, but you don’t half look professional.


Unfortunately, nothing grows in the garden of Old Trafford these days and the cheerful Norwegian now finds himself being wheeled towards the palliative ward.  Hopelessly trapped between expectations and reality.  Anything higher than fourth place an impossibility, anything lower a calamity.  A calamity with added farce if “Lazarus man” Moyes beats him to it.  Comprehensive defeats against Liverpool and Manchester City are one thing.  A firm spanking by relegation-threatened Watford quite another.

It’s happening Ole, this is Sinatra territory.  The bonus track.  All that’s left is how you want the legacy to be written.  A little advice?  Summon the spirit of 02/03 old boy, and that glorious springtime whacking lumps out of Ian Harte, Mauricio Taricco and Alessandro Pistone.  Put some keys in your hand and go out swinging.  Toss a ball at Jonathan Liew and demand he do ten keep-ups.  Go in two-footed on a Custis.  Ask Jonathan Wilson to tell you again that one about how your 30-goal a season striker is somehow the issue with United at the moment.  Maybe you haven’t been a roaring success, but you haven’t been quite the dismal failure they would dearly like to paint you as either.  Treated the same, Ferguson would have had hoods over heads and be driving out into the desert by now.  It’s not your fault that journalists literally can’t think of anything else to write about at this time of year.


After that, well, it’s into the sunset isn’t it?  Back to being a club legend.  Relax and enjoy the wild ride of United’s decennium horribilis; see where it goes next.  Will United executives finally start making decisions with their heads rather than their hearts?  Or is Phil Neville just around the corner?  Nobody knows, but then that’s part of the fun of structural decline.  This century’s already eaten up Debenhams, Thomas Cook and Woolworths.  The giants of yesteryear trampled by the Amazons, the Apples and those pesky sovereign wealth funds.  The future used to mean hope.  But time passes.  Possibilities decrease, regrets mount.  Better the warm cloisters of nostalgia than face up to the reality that Solskjaer is really only a symptom and not the root cause of Manchester United’s continuing decay.

A little something on the side

17 Oct

Being a professional footballer can’t be the most taxing life, can it?  Pick a colour for the leather interior of your Testarossa.  Watch Salt Bae bounce several ounces of salt off his forearm onto your dinner.  Ponder whether you’re going to skip the post-match handshake with Callum Robinson on Sunday.  The calm waters of being a supremely athletic youthful millionaire are rarely troubled.

Pity poor Marcus Rashford, then.  How easy is it to focus on passing drills when you’re mentally tethered to the 4.3 million children in Britain living below the poverty line?  What a burden.  Football might even seem a little insignificant by comparison.  And if that’s not enough, Rashford’s manager actually thinks he’s doing too much on the extra-curricular front.  Ole Gunnar wants less school-age dinners and more last minute winners.

“Marcus has done some remarkable and fantastic things,” Solskjaer told the press as Rashford returns from a shoulder operation, “… but now he maybe needs to prioritise his football”.  Oof.  That one hit harder than a Rashford tweet aimed at a Tory front-bencher.

In many respects, this was classic Fergie-inspired “concentrate on your football” rhetoric.  With Lee Sharpe, the job was to keep him out of the nightclubs.  With Eric, it was the away end.  With Rashford, it’s G7 summits.  Put that famished ten year old down, Marcus.


It’s an interesting, if possibly unfair, point that Solskjaer is making.  The name Marcus Rashford certainly conjures up more on the social justice front than it does professional football at the moment.  But it’s equally thought provoking that, of the presumably many outside interests Solskjaer’s squad of players must surely have, this is the one that irks him.  Paul Pogba changes his hairstyle three times a day.  Cristiano Ronaldo’s life ambition is to star on the cover of Men’s Health every month.  Harry Maguire likes to holiday.  It’s hardly as though Rashford is skipping training to visit food banks.  What’s Ole particularly got against children sleeping on a full stomach?


Chances are, being the masterclass tactician that Solskjaer is, the canny Norwegian recognises the deeper point for contemplation here; the Malthusian question emerging.  How good does Marcus Rashford have to be at football to help the most children?  The sheer scale of Rashford’s philanthropic endeavours depends to a very large extent on him continuing to have a successful top-flight career.  Playing for Manchester United adds seven figures of followers onto your social media account and provides a platform to change the world.  Some terrific charity work is undertaken in the lower leagues of English football, but the star striker of Macclesfield Town is unlikely to be granted an audience with Boris Johnson any time soon.

Imagine, then, the pressure on Rashford.  The stress.  Every below-par performance putting lives at risk.  Every missed chance a Findus crispy pancake that never makes it onto the dinner plate.  Football was never a matter of life and death regardless of whatever deluded nonsense ventured out of Bill Shankly’s mouth, but in Marcus’ case it just might be.


The free school meals crusade certainly wasn’t a one-off gesture, that’s for sure.  Rashford is delving further into the world of social welfare, this time with a focus on getting more kids to read.  And while it’s, shall we say, interesting that someone so keen on literacy campaigning doesn’t seem to actually write any of his own social media posts, Rashford’s intentions are undoubtedly sincere.


Maybe, for the best of everyone’s sake, Solskjaer is right to put up some boundaries on Rashford’s extra curricular activities.  “I” before “e”, but not on matchdays.  Relevancy is not a myth.  Divorce the sports star from the sport and you’re not left with much.  Kournikova taught us that.  And Attlee and Bevin didn’t have the distraction of midweek European games.

Mason Greenwood, Edinson Cavani, Jadon Sancho, Jesse Lingard, Anthony Martial and a certain Portuguese returnee are all competing with Rashford for places this year.  He needs to be focussed.  It’s impossible to say for sure how many packed lunches it would take for Ronaldo to forgive an over-hit through ball, but you suspect it’s a lot.  There’s only so many seats at the dinner table of the United starting XI and the reality, unseemly as it may be, is it’s performances on the pitch that will allow Rashford to have the greatest impact off it.

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19 Feb

If Pep Guardiola took over a Sunday league team, he’d lose his first game in charge 7-0.  He’d lose the second game 15-0 and call it progress.  What’s interesting is he might be right.

The inherited brilliance of his Barcelona and Bayern Munich teams concealed some important things about Pep Guardiola the football manager.  The first being just how bloody long it takes to grasp his system.  It took four years for John Stones to become a Guardiola player.  Gabriel Jesus might never get there.

There is no Plan B.  That’s abundantly clear.  The plan is the plan.  The ball is your daughter’s chastity.  The last vaccine in the care home.  It doesn’t matter if it’s bobbling and Liverpool’s front three are swarming all over you; find a pass.  It doesn’t matter if Jamie Vardy is charging full pelt and your self-assessment is overdue; find a pass.  Clear your lines and you’ll find yourself clearing your locker.

Other leeways will be granted.  It isn’t an enormous issue if you’re a defender that can’t actually defend, for instance.  Stick to the plan and you might never need to.  If you’re a midfielder, you don’t necessarily even need to be able to run.  And while it’s a bonus if the goalkeeper can stop shots, let’s just say Pep has more holistic plans in mind for you.  You can see now why Guardiola didn’t give club legend Joe Hart even a cursory ten games at the start of his reign to prove he was completely ill-equipped for the road ahead.  Dropping him at the outset was an act of mercy.


Football used to be about space and finding the stuff.  Guardiola has collapsed this theory quite literally.  His players don’t spread out, they coalesce.  The temptation might be to think of Paul Scholes as a sort of archetypal Guardiola player, but those 35 yard cross-field balls of soaring beauty would have landed Scholes training with Benjamin Mendy and the reserves.  Sexless three metre passes are the order of the day; shorter if you can manage it.  Triple-A, risk-free balls to one of the two nearest options.  The exciting thing is this remains true even if you’re in your own crowded six yard box.


I used to reflect on how hard City had to work to score a goal under Guardiola and compare it to how cheaply they gave them away, but I’m beginning to think this is just a necessary by-product.  When it goes wrong the Guardiola way, it blows up pretty quickly.  In his first year at Eastlands, when they finished 3rd, City were conceding the sort of goals that would catch cameramen out.  The footage would still be of a replay or a close-up when the ball hit the back of the net.  City would require a 47-pass move to equalise.  The same is still true today really, it’s just that City are managing to do an awful lot more of the latter than the former.


I think you have to already be one of the best teams in the league to play the way Guardiola wants.  I really don’t think you get away with pushing your luck this far if you’re 16th in the table.  Even at the Emirates, Mikel Arteta is steadily extricating Arsenal from the high table of English football trying to implement Pep’s ethos.  The Guardiola method is a finishing school for excellence rather than a general manual on how to play the game.  For most teams, it would be like a normal human trying to use an Olympic standard pole vault; it won’t work and you’re going to hurt yourself trying.

That’s not an issue for Guardiola though.  After a quick practice with the reserves, he started managerial life with Messi, Xavi and Iniesta.  He inherited a Bayern team that had just won the treble and his next move was to the Manchester branch of a sovereign wealth fund.  We’re unlikely to ever know what he’d do with Burnley.


What is true is his Manchester City team are starting to look like the best side in Europe at the moment.  A sort of Mancunian Harlem Globetrotters who you feel are a fit De Bruyne and Aguero away from their best tilt at the big prize. 

In this system that requires the greatest level of nerve, the test will be how well Guardiola’s outfit handle the big occasions in Europe this year.  It will be interesting to see just how solid those six yard box rondos really are in the last 30 minutes of a big European final.  Mourinho-style pragmatism football is tailored to cope with this kind of pressure, alleviate it as best as possible.  By design, Guardiola’s system does not allow this luxury.  The players cannot put the burden down.  That’s not the plan.  They just have to learn to handle it.

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England goalkeeper Joe Hart was keen to meet the new gaffer and understand his plans.

Red, white but forever blue: Steve McManaman won’t leave Manchester City alone

31 Jan

For some reason, it’s a hard-wired rule of English football that pundits and co-commentators have to have played for one of the teams that are on the telly that day.  There’s no obvious logic for this – they’re either decent at the job or they’re not – but then there’s no obvious logic for the taxpayer paying Zoe Ball £1.3m a year.  Some things we just unthinkingly accept.

The cast is familiar at the top end.  Carragher for Liverpool, Gary Neville for United.  You might get a Crouch or a Hoddle for Spurs.  Obviously the well gets a bit shallow the further down you go, and eventually you find yourself taking them on trust that the man in the studio for the Burnley game is in fact Tom Heaton.


I don’t know why this practice came about.  It’s not as though a player who played for a club 5-10 years ago has any special insight into the current team.  If they did, I suspect they wouldn’t be giving it away for free on Super Sunday.  Maybe TV executives think it will warm the hearts of supporters to see one of their “own” in the studio.  Either way, it’s a cruel fate that Manchester City get landed with Steve McManaman.

Always Steve McbloodyManaman.  Every single Champions League game for as long as I can remember.  For these precious years that City get to battle Europe’s elite, games are always played out to the backdrop of Steve McManaman, analysis escaping out of him like steam from an old kettle.

There are no positive associations between McManaman and Manchester City.  Even the press conference announcing his move to the club struck an oddly sour note.  McManaman’s nose was put out of joint by a line of questioning and he responded tersely, listing out all of the trophies he had won at Real Madrid.  McManaman concluded to his audience that he had nothing left to prove in the game.

Unfortunately for Manchester City, he was proven right.  McManaman played 35 games for the club and was shit in every one of them.  Didn’t score a single goal in two seasons.  Couldn’t run, didn’t look like he wanted to.  Just trousered one the best salaries at the club and then retired.  His ongoing relationship with Manchester City via the intermediary of BT Sport has now lasted many times longer than his actual direct association with the club.  Like the haunting spectre of a best forgotten ex-girlfriend becoming bezzies with your wife, he just won’t go away.


I could have easily gotten over this by now.  Fifteen years of wishing Gary Neville would get swept away by the tide didn’t stop me swooning pretty much instantly once Red Nev took to the studio.  But McManaman’s just so bloody bad at this job too.  It’s as though the gears are jammed and he’s stuck in exasperation mode.  He’s never seen anything ordinary.  Listening to him observe a short corner is like a child describing Disney World.  I honestly thought the ball hitting the corner flag and staying in play against Olympique Marseille was going to tip him over the edge.  The acts of a game of football are rarely side-splittingly hilarious.  And yet, for reasons best known to himself, “Macca” chortles his way through ninety minutes plus stoppages like an ageing relative who’s just discovered memes.

Life isn’t fair sometimes, but you wonder if it has to be this unfair.  When a burglar defecates on one of your rugs, you’re left thinking what was wrong with just bagging up the iPads.  United don’t have Carlos Tevez co-commentating on their matches.  No-one’s inviting Sol Campbell into the studio for Tottenham games.  Why must City be singled out for such perverse suffering?

Indeed, it would be a bit less galling if Sky weren’t up to the exact same trick.  In a weirdly similar gambit, Sky have the temerity to wheel out Robbie Fowler as Manchester City’s “representative”; a man who also turned up at City overweight in 2003, several years past his best, was lazy beyond belief and picked up huge wages.  It’s as though television executives are on a bizarre but subtle crusade to highlight the mismanagement of the late-Bernstein era.

It all rather begs the question why we even have partisan pundits in the first place.  If the idea is that they’re lending us their expertise, surely they’re doing us a disservice if they strive for anything other than the strictest accuracy?  There’s no place for a misty-eyed retelling of the game.  Don’t flannel me with false positives if the truth is we were awful.  I need to know, man.  Gaslighting me into believing we deserved all three points isn’t doing me any favours.


Hope springs eternal of course, and new blood may be just around the corner for City fans.  Fresh from a managerial stint at Fleetwood Town, there’s no way Joey Barton is going to swerve the allure of prime-time punditry.  And by crikey we’ll get some searingly honest analysis for our buck then.  Barton has never shied away from speaking the cold hard truth, even when the justice system isn’t compelling it from him.

That’s for the future, though.  Before he can light up our screens, Barton still needs to be extensively media-trained and, ideally, taught how to count to ten.  For the present, on those big European nights, we’re wedded to sharing the experience with Stevie Mac.  A tinnitus-inducing hinge on an old door, speculating excitedly about some of the more basic premises of the game.  Wide-eyed exclamations on a sport he’s supposed to be familiar with.  An expert, even.  Although, judging by his time at the City of Manchester, you would never have known.

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Barely worth marking.

Big Sam dreams of Albion

19 Jan

Ever wondered how long a dream lasts?  A minute?  An hour, maybe?  What about 67 days?  That was how long Sam Allardyce’s England dream lasted before it spectacularly imploded in the puff of a tape-recorded evening meal.  A lesson learned the hard way: it’s not what you don’t know, it’s who you don’t know.

You hear of lottery winners who, drunk on their windfall, find themselves back in the same office chair eighteen months later.  Big Sam probably admires that kind of longevity.  Like a ball thrown vertically upwards, stopping only momentarily at its apex, Allardyce quickly found himself back in the middle reaches of the English game.


There was something comforting about seeing Allardyce back on domestic duties at Crystal Palace.  Sam was in his natural habitat once more.  Back in the galleys, battling relegation and ironing out defensive frailties. 

Allardyce had no sooner returned to the civic stage than he was tearing into the Watford mascot, Harry the Hornet, demanding he be given a 3-game ban for mocking a Palace player for diving.  Utterly incensed and shaking with anger in the mixed media area, Allardyce implored the self-same Football Association that had shattered his England dream to take disciplinary action against a man dressed up as a bumble bee.  It felt like slipping on an old pair of trainers.


A year at Palace was followed by a year at Everton.  Most people thought that was our lot for the Big Sam Experience, but after two years out of the rap game we’re being treated to a swansong.  He’s back, baby.  Chewing gum in the dugout of another unfashionable corner of England.  This time, it’s his hometown of West Bromwich.

You have to think this will almost certainly be Allardyce’s last gig and for that reason alone we ought to cherish it.  When all said and done, Sam is the very essence of English football.  Like the English game itself, he’s both a relic and an innovator.  A man who simultaneously brought us Jay-Jay Okocha and Kevin Nolan.  Beautiful yet ugly, like Mariah Carey.  There might be other managers who snigger and pretend to be baffled at the concept of the “West Ham way”, but it takes a special person to do so while actually managing the club at the time.


Critics are already writing off West Brom’s chances of survival this season but I’m not so sure.  Sam’s on familiar ground here.  He’s got an entire team of players you wouldn’t recognise in the supermarket and a midfielder who recently scored an own goal from 25 yards.  And yet, despite this, West Brom managed to take a point off the reigning champions at Anfield in only his second game in charge.  Two more losses followed but the Baggies have now registered their first victory under Sam, a battling 3-2 away win at Wolves.  He’s only got to rein in Brighton and Fulham for fuck’s sake.  This is distinctly Allardyce-able.

Don’t forget, winning minor parochial battles is all Allardyce has ever known.  In his autobiography, Sam casually mentions that as a younger man on the Midlands dating scene, the love rival for his now wife was snooker player and fellow Brummie, Tony Knowles.  It was nip and tuck for a while on which way the future Mrs Allardyce would go, but Sam eventually ground his opponent down.  Just like he always does.

It’s a great snippet, reflective of a man whose best skirmishes were always resoundingly domestic.  Allardyce was never meant to be England manager.  Hot summer tournaments stuffed into a blazer were never going to be his thing.  Sam’s got no quarrel with the Viet Cong.  He just wants to beat the local snooker hotshot in a best-of-35 frame game of love and get the missus safely back down to balk.  Except now Tony Knowles is Brighton & Hove Albion and Lynne Allardyce is premier league survival.  


West Brom lie 19th with a -27 goal difference, but the gap to 17th is only five points.  Allardyce will need to squeeze every last inch out of Prozone and Sammy Lee to ensure his record of never losing top-flight status stays intact.  Do it, and his legacy will be secured. 

Allardyce spent years dreaming of the Albion job.  Admittedly, the Albion in question was England, not West Brom.  But that’s by the by.   You can’t dwell on regrets at Sam’s age.  His pint glass of wine is half full, not half empty.  Real actors can perform on any stage.  And Big Sam’s got his premier league ballet shoes back on for one last twirl.

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Big Sam, there, just listening out for the “West Ham way”.

Pandemic special

16 Jan

As the temperature looks to dip below freezing tonight, it’s important to remember that a great many sex workers would have died this winter if it wasn’t for the generous contributions of Kyle Walker.  The plaudits have all gone to Marcus Rashford this pandemic, and rightly so, but while Rashford has dominated the front pages with his impressive social conscience on school dinners, Walker has been quietly doing his bit too, ensuring that vital income streams do not dry up during the biggest crisis this country has faced since Steve McClaren’s England reign.  Marcus looks after the kids, Kyle takes care of the mums.  Together – and I’ve thought of a nifty phrase to coin this – they are a CITY UNITED.

It doesn’t end there though.  The North-West has been at the footballing forefront of all things Covid-related.  Back in April, Liverpool F.C. took the brave decision to swallow their pride and furlough support staff.  Sacrificing yourself at the altar of dignity and asking for a hand-out isn’t easy at the best of times.  Imagine, then, some of your payroll earning six figures a week and still having the courage and humility to ask the UK government to step in and pay the wages of your less well-off employees.  Gutsy stuff from the red side of Stanley Park.  And having humbled themselves to exaltation, I feel confident in stating that Liverpool must have subsequently gone on to vote against the greed-soaked power-grab that was Project Big Picture in October without needing to fact-check the matter.

Others are turning their mind to the solution itself, the vaccine.  The great play-off berth back to normality.  It’s here that Sean Dyche is dipping a visionary toe.  Dyche might look for all the world like a mid-ranking UKIP politician – an image not exactly helped by managing Burnley – but it’s all a clever bluff.  The son of a globe-trotting management consultant, Dyche is erudite and thoughtful, and having kept Burnley in the top flight of English football for over half a decade, possibly also a genius.

Dyche’s view is that, once key workers, the elderly and the vulnerable have been given a shot of the good stuff, professional footballers should be next in line.  It’s the sort of statement that you initially dismiss as ludicrously self-entitled, then you start to see the merits of, and probably end up concluding somewhere in between.

The logic of the Ginger Mourinho’s health pitch is as follows: in order to continue playing at the moment, premier league footballers are being tested anywhere up to four times a week, at very considerable ongoing cost.  If that money could be channelled back into the national health system instead, there is a compelling economic argument for having footballers vaccinated early.  And that’s before taking into account the difficult-to-measure but undoubted psychological benefits to the millions (billions, really) who derive enjoyment from watching premier league football.  As we all know too well, the show is only precariously on the road at the moment; the sword of abandonment hangs heavy over the 2020/21 season.

The problem with Dyche’s argument is it slightly misses the point that the fifty year old who dies because Jay Rodriguez was given the vaccine instead of them probably won’t feel all that consoled by Burnley charting course for a sixth straight season in the top flight (impressive, as previously mentioned, though that is).  And while I’m no expert in mental health, it’s difficult to imagine anyone’s psychological lot being improved by the knowledge that Monday Night Football has blood on its hands. 

As it is, these strange times continue for now.  Football, the world, and an army of home boozers keep soldiering on with no obvious finish line to aim for; a bit like forced entrants in the world’s shittest bleep test.  “Catch it, bin it, kill it” used to be the Conservative Party’s policy on immigration, but these days they’re deploying the slogan for health reasons as well.  Here’s hoping they get the ball under control soon.

The only difference between this man and Captain Tom is that Kyle Walker knows the meaning of the word humility.

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18 Jul

Amid the furore of Brexit negotiations this week, in which one politician after the next tried and failed to find a solution to the witless mass opinion of the British public, one news story went largely unnoticed. The lifeless body of a man from Daventry was found inside a wall in a woman’s washroom. He’d been there for over a month. With tactful reserve, the Guardian newspaper reported that “his motive for climbing behind the wall is not known”.

I’ll bet there are hundreds of male bodies decomposing in the infrastructure of female toilets. There must tens if not hundreds of thousands of men worldwide who do this sort of thing. For the sake of argument, let us cautiously assume that one in every twenty men on earth is currently stationed behind a stud wall while a woman urinates a matter of inches away. It only takes a few trapped limbs and heart attacks before the body count really starts to pile up.

People forget, but most men disappear off the map after formal education. They stop turning up for work one day and colleagues naturally assume they’ve topped themselves, quietly taking them off the payroll. Most, of course, have actually topped themselves. But some are just fatally trapped in the building’s infrastructure.

Exterior wall – damp proof course – pervert – stud wall – plasterboard. It’s a familiar story. A lot has been done in recent years to combat male depression, but women have to recognise that there is quite likely a man trapped about a foot and a half away from you at this very moment. And he needs your help.

The safest thing to do would be to put CCTV up in the ladies’ latrines. Then we can all rest easy. But how likely is that in the current climate? Fear of big brother, the rise in feminism and GDPR make it a non-starter. It’s a murky business either side of the party wall, and we can’t just brush it under the carpet.

Nobody with the exception of Joanna Lumley can solve all of the world’s problems. But together, with patience and a notable degree of understanding, we can each do our bit.

So a personal request from Too Good for the English Game. Please, next time you see a familiar face staring up at you from the u-bend, or you hear a faint breathing sound to your left even though you know you’re in the end cubicle, reach out to the man at your side. Give him a blanket, a hot cup of tea, and ask him to turn off any audio-visual equipment. Because Elon Musk isn’t going to lend a helping hand out of this tight situation. Not while all the R&D money is being diverted to Legal. It’s up to us to talk these men down from the porcelain cliff edge.

Thank your for your understanding.

Up top

2 Jan

Picking England’s Number 9 used to be a piece of cake. The nation wouldn’t give it a moment’s thought, and rightly so, not when there was the daunting task of who to shoehorn into that tricky left-midfield berth.

Gary Lineker got the nod for seemingly decades. Then Alan Shearer took over.  After that, Michael Owen, and then Wayne Rooney.  You could set your official England Supporters Club watch by the presence of these men. 

But who now, though? As if 2016 didn’t cast enough uncertainty into the world; the last thing we needed to start 2017 was a debate on who England’s main striker should be.  And yet here we are. 


There are options, of course. Go back a couple of years, and who could have predicted Harry Kane and Jamie Vardy would be two of the main contenders?  Yet their infectious running and endless harrying have brought joy to a divided nation.  Neither is exactly Leo Messi, but the pair’s sheer level of industry is up there with two Christians in a national park who’ve been told there’s an image of Christ in one of the puddles.

Kane and Vardy are romantic options for leading the line. Players whose underdog background and style of play stir the loins. 

With Vardy, there’s something genuinely intoxicating about his straight-line velocity brand of football. You can sense the electricity as he tears towards the ball like a fiver-clutching vegetarian making a beeline for the victim economy.  It’s hard not to enjoy watching Jamie Vardy when he’s on song.  And he’s been on one helluva song. 

Vardy’s debut premier league season finished with a measly 5 goals. Difficult, then, not to smile when he scored on 29 August 2015 against Bournemouth and didn’t fail to score again in a league game until the Christmas lights were up.  Vardy’s off-field antics mean he’s unlikely to be given a UN ambassadorial role any time soon.  But if Bank Ki-moon ever needs an injection of pace up top, he knows where to look.


While it might be a struggle to reconcile liking Jamie Vardy with your broader world view, Harry Kane is nothing short of a charm. Big trusting eyes and warm of interview.  Physically cherubic, with those lovely red cheeks, if in a slightly might-have-struggled-with-algebra kind of way.  A real Best Case Scenario for dating your daughter.

As with Vardy, Kane is already twenty-five past any level of expectation. Farmed out in his formative years to team after team further down the footballing pyramid, Kane developed a classic case of McEachran-itis; destined to appear in squad photos at the start of every season, only to vanish into the ether of Manish Bhasin’s witching hour highlight reel.  Leyton Orient.  Millwall.  It didn’t matter how shit the team was, so long as they were within touching distance of the M25 and on late.

But then, all of a sudden, as though a North London genie had appeared from a lamp, piping up with something unintelligible in faux Cockney-ese, in a tone suggesting that the genie probably thought he was more of a geezer than he actually was, Kane was granted his wish of a shot at the big time.

And by crikey he grasped it. Game after game, Kane dared the nation to say it was just a run of form. Teased us all with the prospect that he would be back being analysed by Steve Claridge and Leroy Rosenior in next to no time.  The disbelief continued right up until Kane finished runner-up in the scoring charts; this despite not even opening his account until November.  As an encore, Kane won the golden boot outright the following year.  The nation had found a bona fide centre-forward.


Just as Kane was tickling everyone’s wholesome fancy, along came a striker who was even lovelier, even younger and even more of a throwback. Marcus Rashford is a dream within a dream.

A brace on his European debut, another brace on his league debut, the winner in his first Manchester derby and the youngest English player to score in his first senior international game. Not bad for a four month period in the midst of his A-levels. 

All being well, Rashford could conceivably become England’s Number 9 until 2030. Young strikers are rightly approached with caution, though. They burst onto the scene with all the lustre of a young Harrison Ford, only for many to drift off into the lower leagues or even, God forbid, Sunderland.  Sometimes you’ve got a genuine unicorn on your hands.  Sometimes all you’ve got is a horse with a dildo strapped to its head, and you’re left feeling thoroughly duped by the cheeky bugger.  Rashford looks likely to be the former, but it’s still early days.


All these romantic options. Warms the cockles of your heart, doesn’t it?  Well not mine, mate.  The romantic option is what made Michael Jordan give up basketball and play baseball for two years.  Badly.  The romantic option is why Jeremy Corbyn is currently denying the UK government an effective opposition.  It’s the reason kitchens up and down the country are littered with bread-making machines.

The Swedish press summed up romance perfectly when 17 year-old Theo Walcott was taken to the 2006 World Cup. They likened Sven’s decision in picking Theo to being locked out of your house with only €1 and choosing to spend it on a lottery ticket.  It might work, but the better option would have been to buy a phone card.

Daniel Sturridge is England’s phone card. He’s the head not the heart.  He’s got something better than romance: pedigree.  Born into a footballing family and with clubs fighting over him as a teenager, there’s no rags to riches story with Sturridge because there never needed to be; he was always going to be really good.  This doesn’t make him the populist choice for headline-hunting journalists, but I would ask you to look beyond the loudest and most obvious, just as Sturridge himself does on the field of play.

People remember the colossal balls up against Iceland in the summer, forgetting that there was very nearly a colossal balls up in the group stages against Wales. England couldn’t seem to unlock the massed ranks of the Welsh defence for all the call centres in Swansea.  It took a moment of guile from Sturridge and – crucially – the willingness to take a chance, to do something different, that got England the crucial goal.  While Kane was busy hitting free-kicks the wrong side of the goal-line official and corners into neighbouring stadiums, Sturridge was one of the few that emerged from Euro 2016 with any credit.


In short, Sturridge has the ability to peer over the horizon when Kane and Vardy can only see hills and ocean. And while you would happily back either of the latter two to run riot against many of the punch-bags in international football, when it comes down to it, when it really matters, my money would be on Sturridge to find a way through against one of the big beasts.

Sturridge’s career has been somewhat chequered to date. Partly due to a poor decision to go to Chelsea at an early age, but mostly because of injury problems.  His fragile nature should not count against him when considering options for England.  If he’s fit, he should play.  He can at least last the length of a major tournament; and certainly for the duration that England tend to remain in for.

You can follow Sonny Pike (@_SonnyPike) on Twitter or subscribe to Too Good for the English Game by clicking the “Follow” button on the right-hand side of this page (this button is mysteriously unavailable on the mobile version of the website).


Don’t let this slippery devil fool you.



Drifting rock

2 Dec

It’s always struck me as odd that English banknotes are actually worthless. They’re not backed by anything; it’s only people’s belief they’re worth something that gives them any value. The stuff’s run on confidence and confidence alone.

This being so, we ought give our currency its best shot and put Liam Gallagher on the notes. If confidence, earned or otherwise, is the name of the game, let’s get a big-hitter in. The Queen’s never struck me as a particularly optimistic girl. No brash self-assuredness in her voice. Bit of a shit dresser, too, if we’re being honest. Liam, on the other hand, if he tells you something’s worth twenty quid, then it’s worth twenty quid.


Better yet, let’s get Joe Hart on the notes. Joe’s super confident. And well he might be. You don’t want a bed-wetter between the sticks, do you? It’s a battle of the mind for goalkeepers, with disastrous consequences if they lose. Outfield players have the luxury of only competing against ten others. Not so, for goalkeepers. They have to contend with players, the fans, the press. Even a few of the cheekier ballboys probably like to enquire if the visiting custodian is feeling a touch nervous.

And as much as Hart is one of the best one-on-one shot-stoppers in the business, it’s Joe Hart’s unflinching belief in Joe Hart that sets him apart. Hart would stare down a Haka as soon as look at one. His giant head wouldn’t flinch for a moment, set on that ramrod-straight, drill sergeant neck of his.


Most of us are timid self-questioning souls, who can barely get out of bed in the morning without wondering if we’re in the right job, the right relationship, or if we ring our parents enough. Hart doesn’t bother with any of that nonsense. England’s Number One knows damn well he hasn’t left the gas on. And he isn’t going to waste his days mentally tethered to Best Before dates or whether he needs to bring a coat out.


Naturally, this drives his critics wild. Journalists, opposing fans, they love to hone in on a goalkeeper low on confidence. Put ’em in the spotlight and watch them wither. It’s a long road back for a keeper once a crisis of confidence forms.

Joe never lets these idiots in. He’s a walled city. And in that way, he always wins. Fingers taped and already barking instructions in the tunnel, we witness the unwilting aura of a man who can’t be gotten at. An unyielding structure who stands his full height, whether in the goalmouth or the media access area. Joe Hart is six feet five; he’s fairly confident of that.


This is why Hart is vital to Manchester City. And it’s what Pep Guardiola seems to completely miss about him. Hart is the only player utterly convinced that City can win the Champions League. That they should win the Champions League. The lad who used to keep goal for Shrewsbury Town is the only one who can picture himself shaking hands with UEFA dignitaries, as he lifts the European Cup high above his flake-free head. The man whose transfer fee was fifty times less than Aguero’s, who rose from League 2. Hart knows he’s only got one life and he’s damned if he’s going to throw it away on the group stages.


More, then, is the tragedy of the past few months. Hart has been banished to Turin; loaned out in the prime of his career. In his place, an ageing clown, whose party trick is to caress the ball into the path of oncoming strikers. Joe’s distribution was always an area for improvement. But only in the sense that once every game or so he would lamp the ball unpressured straight into the stands. Restarting with an opposition throw-in was much preferred to restarting from the centre circle, as has become a familiar sight with Claudio Bravo this season.

Prospects for a return are slim. Philosophers make stubborn leaders, and Guardiola is by no means an 80:20 operator; he’s pure doctrine. Hart finds himself marginalised by a gaffer with deep seated beliefs, who is also trying to establish his authority in a new setting; a dangerous combination. And so, without being given so much as a single league outing between the sticks, Hart has been deemed utterly dispensable.


Anyone involved in football has found themselves lamenting a defeat that came from a lack of belief. A nagging sense that if the boys had just believed they would do the business, then they probably would have done. Louis van Gaal is fond of saying that the mental approach of players is football’s last great unexplored frontier. Hard, then, to quantify the hidden loss of casting Joe Hart to one side; a man with enough self-belief for the whole back five and probably a few holding midfielders to boot.

We’re still in the first flushes of the Guardiola regime, but this has been by far his biggest call to date. He will be judged not only on whether he was right, but as much by his willingness to admit the error if he’s proven to be wrong. Given the haste with which he cut Hart loose in the first place, it would be a bold move for Guardiola to bring him home again. The decision would certainly require a healthy dose of self-confidence. Thankfully, Pep doesn’t have far to look if he needs inspiration on that front.

You can follow Sonny (@_SonnyPike) on Twitter or subscribe to Too Good for the English Game by clicking the “Follow” button on the right-hand side of this page (this button is mysteriously unavailable on the mobile version of the website).


“Stones … to Bravo … back to Stones”


Flesh and cloth

25 Jul

I’ve witnessed some painful sights in my time. Grown men beat-boxing. People who say “Brangelina”. And the slow, ticking realisation of a Leave voter, to name just a few. But none were more painful than the sight of Bolton’s Nicky Hunt walking off the field of play on August 16th, 2003.

The Wanderers were playing Manchester United, so Hunt might reasonably have expected a tough day at the office. Quite how tough came as a shock to all, as with 29 minutes to go, Alex Ferguson summoned his new signing from the bench – a pockmarked £12.2million teenager from Portugal. Having had previous for birthing fledgling talents into the English game, the claret-drenched Knight of the Realm seemed to be at it again.

It was as though the future had arrived. As with all depictions of the future, it had a terrible haircut. Cristiano Ronaldo danced past Hunt again and again with a brand of skill we simply hadn’t seen before. There were stepovers, yes. But not of the “are-these-ever-going-to-lead-anywhere” Denilson variety. These were sharper. More chopped. It didn’t matter how side-on Hunt made himself, he and Ronaldo were vessels in the night. Except that Ronnie was a speedboat. A dancing, spaghetti-haired comet trail was all that Hunt saw of the Madeira kid that day.


Ronaldo was everything the modern footballer should be. Fast. Muscular. Orange. The stage was his and his alone. It is said that each player averages a mere 53.4 seconds’ possession during a 90-minute game. That may be true in most cases, but Ronaldo wouldn’t consider it a day’s work unless he’s had a fully-fledged quarter of an hour on the ball.

Yet despite being head, shoulders and trapezoids above everyone else, Ronaldo was not adored by the common man. Vanity is a difficult trait to warm to. Roy of the Rovers, for instance, might not have inspired quite so many budding young footballers if he’d spent the first four or five pages of each magazine flexing endlessly in front of a mirror. But then, on the other hand, who cares? If niceness got you on in life, Gareth Southgate would have won the Balon d’Or.

Deep down Ronaldo knew exactly what the public wanted. And if that meant performing ball tricks in front of jeering Chelsea fans rather than doing a proper pre-game warm-up, so be it. These people had paid their money.


Meanwhile, unbeknown to the young Ronaldo, fate was busy manufacturing him a polarity. Across the English Channel, in a soon-to-be-forgotten place called mainland Europe, another talent was prospering. Except this one didn’t behave like a randy ski instructor with immense ball control. This one was short in the leg and scruffy in demeanour. Unassuming, almost to the point of shyness; if you had to blind guess what he did for a living, you’d have probably gone with roadie for a commercially unsuccessful indie band. Perhaps more jarringly, this other guy didn’t even seem to actively want to be on the cover of Men’s Health.


Ronaldo and Lionel Messi were destined to be locked in an eternal grapple. Opposition teams just a phoney war backdrop, as the two defined themselves not by the eleven players they faced each week on the pitch, but by what the other was doing. It became the great duel of our time.

Adidas, Barcelona and every commentator in the world tried to characterise it as Good versus Evil, or humility against hubris. The spirit of the game versus a preening dickhead. But time has shown this narrative to be misplaced. For one thing, and it might sound trivial, but Ronnie actually pays his taxes. For another, despite all the sulking Ronaldo does on the pitch, he’s the first to turn up to major tournaments and he’s absolutely desperate to be the last to leave. Nobody wanted to win Euro 2016 more than he did. Messi, in contrast, has decided that, aged just 29, international football is no longer his thing. His legacy has become stained by evasive practices, both fiscal and footballing.


So forget “Good versus Evil”. The moniker is too simplistic, and probably just wrong anyway. The contextual layer that really separates the two is how much more earned Ronaldo’s brilliance is.


At first sight, the temptation is to view Messi as the underdog between the two. Diminutive stature, growth hormones as a child, too ugly to get a bird at school, etc. The Argentine might be praised as the one who overcame the greater battle. But like Leo Messi’s Dad and a self-assessment form, not everything’s quite adding up here.

The reality is that Messi is simply not of this earth; blessed with a supernatural talent beyond others’ contemplation. He has a balance that defies the frailty of man sprinting upright on two legs, and a dribble that cannot be reproduced. To watch Leo Messi is to admire a beautiful uber-human who has probably never broken a yolk and never known the trauma of sending a box of cocktail sticks flying. It’s an existence which no amount of training can replicate.

Ronaldo, on the other hand, is completely man-made. He is a miracle of achievement, rather than simply a miracle. God-given talent doesn’t get you four feet off the ground when a whipped cross comes into the penalty area. You get that way through Herculean conditioning. God-given talent doesn’t get you more tricks than any other player on the planet. You have to learn them the same way Michael Gove learnt politics. One deceitful turn after the next.

People praise Messi’s calm and condemn Ronaldo’s petulance. You’re damn right Ronaldo’s angry when something goes wrong. Do you have any idea how hard he’s practiced to get things right? The floor gets thumped and the skies cursed, because an awful lot went into the process.


It’s this distinction between the two that makes recent events so compelling. Ronaldo has finally got the piece of silverware that has long eluded Messi, an international tournament winner’s medal. The human has bested the immortal. Better yet, he did it a matter of days after Messi flounced off from the Argentine national team vowing never to return. Messi’s retirement has therefore made this win a defining factor. A factor which, unless Messi reverses his decision, will always distinguish the two.

Will this force Messi’s hand into returning, just to keep up with his sworn rival? If so, how much more painful will it be if he continues to fall short? It’s not like Messi can blame a lack of support staff; he plays for one of the big beasts of international football, for heaven’s sake. Ronaldo has just dragged a team of lunatics, nearly men and no-hopers to glory.


Domestically, at least, the battle between Ronaldo and Messi will continue to run. Chances are both will eventually retire with the world still torn on who was better. But this victory strikes me as one worth celebrating. This summer, the gods were humbled. Messi was humbled. This summer, a man armed with nothing more than a lifetime of practice got his nose in front of superman.

It was a triumph for Ronaldo, but in a very real way it was a triumph for all of us. Because there’s actually nothing that separates us from Ronaldo other than supreme dedication, extraordinary application and some unusually white teeth.

It’s hard to love Ronaldo, I know. So I won’t ask you to. But when your mind wanders to the pantheon of true greats, remember that almost all have an international trophy to their name. Garlanded Hall of Famers, such as Pele, Maradona, Beckenbauer, Charlton, Platini, Zidane, the Brazilian Ronaldo, Matthaus, Gullit and van Basten. They’ve all got one.

Now standing beside them – looking for all the world like a butler in the buff in shinpads – is Ronaldo. He’s in the club, too. Lionel Messi, unless he fancies a rethink, now never will be. International failure looms over him like a suspended prison sentence. A feeling one suspects he will be all too familiar with.

You can follow Sonny (@_SonnyPike) on Twitter or subscribe to Too Good for the English Game by clicking the “Follow” button on the right-hand side of this page (this button is mysteriously unavailable on the mobile version of the website).


“Any chance of the shirt staying on today, Ron?”