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New Season

16 Aug

The premier league is back and I, for one, am more excited than a badger at the start of mating season.  Summer distractions are just that.  Wimbledon, the Ashes, royal babies.  Great, but where is Luis Suarez going?  This is what the Great British public really wants to know.  Some things matter.

I’m like a coiled spring at this time of year.  All torque and potential energy; waiting for those sun-kissed opening games.  Soon the clouds will roll in but, for now, glistening green pitches will play host to new names, new kits and fresh hopes.  Bid your loved ones farewell until next May and settle in.

Football fans display an uncanny ability to overlook the obvious at this time of year in favour of a distinctly autumnal optimism.  Too Good has had its dreams of a brighter future dashed too many times before to be drawn in by this false hope.  Some things remain ever present and the sooner into the 2013-2014 season we recognise that Manchester United will win the bloody league again, the sooner we can make peace with our lot.

I’ve canvassed the opinion of several friends who are knowledgeable about football, as well as one or two Liverpool fans, on who they think will take home the spoils this year.  Everyone seems to think it will be either Chelsea or Manchester City.  The experts conclude similarly – not a single member of the Sky Sports panel plumped for the team from Old Trafford on their Season’s Preview show.  Manchester United seem to carry something of a “Germany in major tournaments” feel to them.  We turn up every single time doing our absolute best to rationalise why they won’t win the thing, which of course they then go on and do.  Sometimes the collective footballing consciousness needs to be shaken by the lapels.

Why it won’t be City…

Appropriately for a team hoping for a Second Coming of the premiership title, Manchester City have signed a player called Jesus.  Navas has almost as many tricks up his sleeve as his Nazareth counterpart. But, like Christ himself, Navas also has an Achilles’ Heel.  Christ’s shortcoming was an inability to fend off betrayal within the ranks of his disciples.  Navas’ is his inability to fend off a wobbly lip when he leaves his hometown of Los Palacios.  One hopes that grizzled premiership defenders don’t decide the best way to test the homesick Sevillan’s resolve is a succession of “welcome to the Premiership” tackles.

Pellegrini did his business early in the summer.  Once Navas was prised from his mother’s apron strings, Fernandinho, Stefan Jovetic and Alvaro Negredo quickly followed to the Etihad.  A lot of talent has arrived along with the new manager.  Winning teams typically grow organically, though, rather than be thrown together.  And it’s uncertain what sort of formation will accommodate these players as well as the pre-existing high flyers.  With the exception of Navas, each, it could be argued, has a comparative or better player already in situ at the club (Fernandinho < Toure, Jovetic < Tevez (who will be a massive loss for City on the pitch), Negredo < Aguerro).  It’s not therefore especially clear how City have improved (other than in depth), despite having quality come through the door.  In any case, City fans better hope it gels quickly.  Title races can’t be won before Christmas, but they can certainly be lost.

Why it won’t be Chelsea…

Chelsea have strengthened primarily in the dugout.  The Mourinho Effect is certainly not a chimera, but nor does it tend to work without a hefty war-chest being put to good use.  As Jose himself once opined, in order to buy the best eggs, you need to shop in Waitrose.  While Abramovic’s munificence has surely been guaranteed to Mourinho, so far the cash register has barely rung.  £18m on Andre Schurrle may prove to be a good spend but it wasn’t the focal striker that Chelsea need.  Schurrle operates mainly from the wing or behind another striker.  What Chelsea require is a number 9 that will lead the attack.  Any of Falcao, Cavani, Lewandowski or Higuaín (or even Roberto Soldado, had an astute Daniel Levy not been on hand to whisk him off to the Lane) would have fitted the bill.   As it is, all of the above have signed elsewhere or re-committed to their current paymasters.  If Mourinho honestly thinks Fernando Torres can do the job after three years now in the wilderness, then he’s exhibiting a blind faith that would make Eileen Drewery blush.

Of course, this position all changes if a certain box-shaped Scouser heads down to London.  Wayne Rooney is no stranger to a transplant and, if he were to bed down quickly and effectively at Stamford Bridge, the complexion of Chelsea’s title challenge would change completely.

Which leaves us with…

Al Pacino’s character in Scarface was keen to point out the necessity of a villain of the piece (‘You need people like me so you can point your fingers and say, “That’s the bad guy”.’).  The redemptive quality of the film arrives when seeing the cocaine-fuelled Montana shot to pieces by a team of assassins.  Unfortunately, football isn’t a motion picture and the bad guys rarely get their comeuppance.  The premier league’s Tony Montana, Manchester United, seem to go home with the spoils year after year.  Yet, mysteriously, pundits and fans alike go into overdrive each pre-season trying to contrive reasons as to why it won’t be Manchester United’s year.

To recall, Manchester United won the league by eleven points last season.  By the end of March, they didn’t even need their foot on the pedal.  Putting this into perspective, no team has ever won the premier league by a wider margin and not retained it the following year[1].  In any case, United nab the title pretty much every year.  The red devils have won the premiership on 13 out of 21 occasions, comfortably the highest win percentage (62%) in any of the big European leagues over the same period[2].  You would be hard-pressed to find a dispassionate statistician conclude anything other than a Manchester United success being the most likely outcome.

United have the best striker in the Premiership who is in the form of his life.  They have a supply line to him that is never choked and, at the time of writing, they still have by far the best current English footballer.

Although United haven’t had a decent central midfield for over half a decade now, it doesn’t seem to bother them.  There’s no reason to assume it will suddenly now start to.  Their backline is looking a bit creaky, but then it did last year and United are unlikely to suffer as badly with injuries again.  Vidic has returned and will likely manage more than 19 games this season.  While Rio Ferdinand’s back is more and more resembling a game of Russian Roulette with intervertebral discs these days, there is the blossoming Phil Jones and the reliable Jonny Evans both very capable of picking up the slack.  Rafael is also a fantastic (and wildly underrated) player.

People want to exclaim Alex Ferguson’s retirement as the death knell to United’s dominance.  This may prove to be the case but I can’t see the players forgetting what he taught them overnight.  There might be a certain atrophy over time but I don’t think Ferguson re-invented the wheel each time he went into the dressing room.  He was responsible for putting together great teams at Old Trafford and he’s left one there now.

Things change, sure.  But less so than is often realised.  You’ll get taxed this year.  Christmas will be a bit underwhelming. People will cry on reality television and it’s going to rain on the bank holiday.  Manchester United, I’m afraid, will most likely win the league.

[1] Chelsea won the 2004-2005 title by 12 points and won again the following year with 8 points to spare.  United won the league in 1999-2000 by a colossal 18 points and won the next year by a comparatively modest 10 points.  In short, not only did both teams defend their league titles, they did so handsomely.

[2] Over the same period of time (21 seasons), Bayern Munich have won the Bundesliga 11 times, Barcelona have won La Liga 10 times,  Juventus have won Serie A seven times and Lyon have won Ligue 1 seven times.

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One more sleep, fellas.

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The Return of Mourinho

5 Jun

Parkinson. Take That. Liverpool in Istanbul. Peter Mandelson. Our proud nation has seen many great comebacks in its time.  This week, Roman Abramovic will be sacrificing a fatted calf to celebrate the return of his prodigal son.  Jose is back!

I’m flinging journalistic impartiality out of the window here and now.  I think Jose Mourinho is fantastic.  Ever since the young Porto manager went tearing down the touchline to celebrate a two-legged winner at Old Trafford, the Special One has had a special place in my heart.  Mourinho appearing on screen is like watching Gollum in Lord of the Rings; he’s the only bit worth paying attention to.  Housewives up and down the country won’t be the only ones going weak at the knees on his return.  Players, fans, journalists, other managers – Mourinho pretty much groomed the nation last time he was here.

Too Good has expressed its admiration for Jose’s managerial record before.  He’s the top dog.  The man from Setúbal had every right to call himself “a special one” (he never actually said “the special one”, but indefinite articles don’t carry quite the same quotability…).  Mourinho is a big game hunter and he has a glittering trophy cabinet.  Chelsea are the clear winners in the managerial merry-go-round.

Not dissimilar to goats being able to predict an earthquake, bookmakers usually have a feel for the seismic impact of an arrival at a football club.  Mourinho’s announcement has positioned Chelsea as near enough joint favourites for next year’s premiership (Chelsea are at 31%, United at 33% and City, remarkably, have their noses in front at 35%).  You wouldn’t want to bet against Jose repeating his previous trick of winning the league in his first year.  Don’t forget Chelsea are already a team that, aside from a horror show of 4 points in seven games in late autumn, were posting title-contending numbers for the majority of last season.

Are there any flies in the West London ointment?  Most worriment focuses on Mourinho’s longevity.  The accusation goes that Jose has all the matrimonial sticking power of Liz Taylor.  I think Mourinho’s reputation as a jilter is a bit unkind.  If anything, it would be fairer to characterise him as having a penchant for choosing to work with despotic lunatics.  Roman Abramovic and Florentino Pérez are to sound minds what I am to high fashion.  Neither of them have shown the ability to nurture a manager any longer than Lenny in Of Mice and Men was able to hold a mouse.  Only at Porto and Inter, where Mourhino was clearly getting a promotion of sorts (to Chelsea and Real Madrid, respectively), could he be said to be leaving clubs entirely of his own volition

I suspect Mourinho’s tenure will surprise people in its length.  Jose has made no secret of his desire to coach Portugal one day but this shouldn’t worry Chelsea fans.  National teams are the preserve of managerial dinosaurs these days.  A way of keeping your toe in once the demands of 38 games a season at the coal-face are no longer bearable.  A mere pup aged 50, Mourinho is at least a decade away from being at the helm of the Seleção.  

As for club teams likely to tempt him away, I’m not sure where else he would now go.  Manchester United don’t seem to want him, despite his gushing post-match press interview at Old Trafford in March (behaviour that was every inch him making eyes across the dance floor).  He hates Barcelona and he was practically chased out of Italy. He’s running out of options at the top-table.

Mourinho’s second reign will more likely depend on whether Abramovic can resist the urge to meddle.  The temptation is completely understandable, if unwise.  Roman has bought the chess set, so he wants to move the pieces.  But Jose will not take kindly to being lumbered with another Shevchenko.  If the restless Russian starts to rock the marital boat, Jose isn’t one to stick it out for the good of the children.

What should be of greater concern is whether Mourinho can recreate the same magic of his first visit.  Sequels are rarely as good as the original.  And, outside of a Champions League win, it’s hard to see how he can top his first visit.  Now’s the time for the job, though.  Between them, Villas Boas and Benitez have performed the gritty but necessary transition from the old guard.  Gone is the reliance on Drogba, Essien, Terry and Lampard.  Those that remain from Mourinho Mark One know they are no longer guaranteed starters.  At Jose’s disposal is a young, talented crop of players crying out to be steered to greatness.  In Mata, Oscar and Hazard, Chelsea have one of the finest attacking midfield trios in world football. 

Mourinho likes a war chest and Abramovich will indulge him.  He has presumably been assured he can buy at least one top-class striker, unless he’s bringing with him a defibrillator to use on Fernando Torres.  In the long haul, Lukaku shows a lot of promise (and physical strikers are often late developers).  You would think, though, that Roman will want to gift Jose with a welcome home present.  A fatted calf is one thing but someone who will snaffle 20-25 goals could easily make the difference in a tilt for the title.  Robin van Persie showed that.  If Chelsea can come up with some bona fide penalty box ammunition over the summer, Honest Too Good’s Unofficial Gambling Consultancy will be advising a crisp fiver on the title ending up at Stamford Bridge next year.

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“You know, Jose, I’ve always been a big fan of Raul…”

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How England can win the World Cup

2 Jun

Archimedes was soaking in the tub when he discovered displacement theory.  Isaac Newton took a breather under an apple tree.  “Let it Be” came to Paul McCartney in a dream.  I was cycling home from KFC when I had my Eureka moment.  Without wishing to over-egg the pudding, I think I might have just come up with an idea that will have Roy Hodgson’s boys winning world cups for years to come.

*England* play in the premiership.

Here me out.  Call them FC England (or England ‘A’, or Albion, it doesn’t matter).  FC England operate on a similar policy to Athletic Bilbao.  Except rather than selecting players only from the Basque region (which, admittedly, might be a better idea…), FC only pick players who are eligible to play for England. 

FC England will adopt the same style and formation as the national team.  The benefits of continuity in style of play are evident at La Masia.  Barcelona play the same formation in their Under 7’s team as they do with the big boys.  The transition is therefore seamless.  By extension, the Spanish national team also enjoy greater prosperity by playing a similar style of football to Barcelona.

England, currently, play nothing like a similar style or formation to any of the big premier league teams.  So let’s create one.  Rather than looking like eleven blokes who met in the car park 30 minutes before kick-off, England could play with a confidence and cohesion that has been forged over several seasons in the testing fires of the premier league.  A noble aim, but who can ensure such similarities in play will be implemented?  I’ll tell you who.  Roy Hodgson earns £3million per annum to coach a measly six competitive games a year.  Roy is a decent man and keen as mustard to see English football progress.  So I’m sure he’ll be delighted to up his gaffering responsibilities to a full league season.  If he will persist with this prehistoric 4-4-2 set-up in the national team, he shall have the benefit of implementing it week-in, week-out in the premiership.  Two banks of four may score low with the judges on degree of difficulty, but at least our execution will be spot on.

To be clear, Too Good isn’t suggesting some sort of state-sanctioned annexation of players.  No-one is going to be forced to play for the domestic Three Lions.  By the same token, though, turning out for them is hardly going to damage anyone’s chances of an international call-up.  Wizard of the wing, Adam Johnson, did nought but hurt his England opportunities by enjoying a couple of seasons on the comfortable and well-appointed substitute seats at the Etihad.  Poor old “Jinky” then hammered the final nail into his international coffin by joining Sunderland.  38 games a season under the watchful glare of Mr Hodgson is not exactly the worst way to guarantee AJ a seat on the plane for Brazil 2014.  If you’re lucky, Roy may even extoll some of the coaching titbits that made him a managerial legend in the footballing powerhouses of Norway and Switzerland.  Off the top of my head, James Milner, Ashley Young, Adam Johnson, Danny Rose, Ryan Bertram and a no-longer-first-choice-at-Chelsea John Terry would all benefit from signing up for the Albion All-stars.

The fanciful notion propounded herein would quickly fall foul of “castles in the sky” accusations were it not underpinned by sound logistics.  No great idea can survive on Jamie Milner alone.  There are issues of facilities and fan-base to consider.  For one thing, FC England need a ground to play on.  I’ve decided that Wembley will do very nicely for home games.  Not much by way of training facilities around there, though, unless Hodgson’s competence really is limited to a quick game of Head Tennis on Wembley Way.  What would be extremely useful is if there was some sort of national football centre with state-of-the-art facilities.  St George’s Park, you say?  £105million well spent.  We’ll take it.  Between the Burton development and Wembley, you have nigh on £1billion in footballing infrastructure. 

Unfortunately, Eileen Drewery is no longer on the payroll of the Football Association, so we can only use ordinary powers of speculation as to what kind of fan-base FC England would have.  I’d like to think that, on some level, we would all be fans.  It is, after all, England.  English players in club teams tend to enjoy a special place in the hearts of most fans (I would gladly pledge my first-born daughter to Micah Richards).  So a team full of Englishmen ought to similarly endear.

Football clubs used to be the sinews of the locality.  However, with the introduction of all of those Jonathan Overseas into English football, this is increasingly no longer the case.  I’m no protectionist; a premier league with players from all corners of the globe is a fantastic thing.  I also think that, contrary to the opinion of many, the influx has been very good for English players (would the national team really be any better if our top-flight contained no foreigners but was barely any higher in standard than the Championship?)  However, anyone whose main driver for supporting their local team used to be watching footballers from their area must no longer feel the same strength of bond.  Maybe a few of these fans could support FC England.  Since FC can be run on a not-for-profit basis, ticket prices would be cheaper, too.

Before you dismiss this idea as merely the mad ramblings of a recent premier league champion, think about this.  The definition of insanity is repeating the same thing and expecting different results.  And nobody got anywhere new by taking the path most travelled.  The current trajectory for the English national team is down, not up.  We’re getting worse; and dressing up as the Germans isn’t the answer.  Full marks to England for not ballsing it up quite as quickly as we suspected they would in the Euros, but drawing at home to Ireland and being bossed by Montenegro in our WC qualifying group is not what you would call optimal.  We need to take a different route. 

There was a time when World Cups and European Championships evoked feelings of hope and expectation.  Recent major tournaments have conjured images of 11 flustered men on the fringes of sunburn.  We don’t look like we are going to achieve anything by conventional methods.  So let’s give this a go.  And if that means only two teams go up from the Npower Championship this year, so be it.  Ian Holloway gets annoying over a whole season, anyway.  Consider it a patriotic sacrifice for glory to be brought on the nation.  It’s a small price to pay to watch an ageing John Terry, adorned head-to-toe in his clean and unspoilt kit, lift the world cup high above his head in the Maracana.

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There’s only one way this beautiful image will become a reality…

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Asset strippers

24 May

The final day of the football season often gives way to mawkish sentiment.  Emotions get the better of grown men typically predisposed to clinical decision-making.  Such saccharine behaviour is not tolerated at Too Good towers. Only this lunchtime, the dinner lady was fired because the pineapple rings on the gammon were sliced too generously.  All good businesses need to be run on a budget.  Football teams are no different.

For similar reasons of thrift I used to spend this time of year pondering who Manchester City might be able to pinch from teams that had been relegated.  Inevitably, there will be players who feel that a season in the N-Power Championship is beneath them.  When times were hard at Maine Road, I would be like a vulture circling a dying corpse, trying to tempt these want-away prima donnas to the blue three-quarters of Manchester.

I would sit impatiently, as if at a funeral.  Not there to mourn the passing, but anxiously waiting to whisper in the ear of a Steed Malbranque or a Zoltan Gera. “Deepest sympathies to hear you’re off to the Championship, Mick.  Listen, any chance I can have a quick word with Julio Arca?”

Crisis spells opportunity. And there are no morals during the transfer window.  Like the Cleggs and the Camerons of this world, I was prepared to hop into bed with anyone if the price was right. Let’s do a grubby deal.  Now where’s Muzzy Izzet?

It works both ways, naturally.  I could sense mid-table mouths’ watering the year City went down with Georgi Kinkladze in our midst.  The queue for the magical Georgian was long and by no means orderly.  In the end, loyalty got the better of Kinky and he stuck around for another year before heading to Ajax.  A few years later, he was involved again in an even less successful relegation battle at Derby.  Alas, Kinkladze had had a few battles with the dinner table before arriving at Pride Park.  By the time Derby were consigned to the Championship, the only mouth watering was his own.

So what’s in this year’s bargain basement bin? Who will cost Championship pennies rather than Premiership pounds? You’ll get a better price for clothing scrunched together on the rails rather than beautifully presented on a mannequin.

If you’re looking for players to stave off the threat of relegation, look no further than the DW Stadium.  The Latics are so used to elaborate escapes they have a defender named Alcaraz.  I wouldn’t sign him though; Wigan’s principle deficiencies this year have been defensive.  Some of their more forward players, though, are well worth a punt.  Arouna Koné’s the obvious one.  A one-in-three goal scorer for a team down at the bottom is a fantastic return.  He will be keen to continue proving he can cut it in one of Europe’s top leagues after a disappointing spell at Sevilla.

I’ve also been extremely impressed with the performances of James McCarthy this season.  A 22, he can expect to have a long career at the top level ahead of him.  If you fancy a bit more of a gamble, how about Callum McManaman? McManaman provides genuine sparkle from the wing and proved, some might say unnecessarily, that he can do it against the very best with his Man of the Match performance in the FA Cup final.  Another 22 year old, McManaman has time (and a healthy sell-on value) on his side.

I would be amazed if Christopher Samba fancies another season with the swivel-eyed loons at Loftus Road.  However, with transfer fees already totalling £25m in aggregate over his career, signing Mount Christopher will likely require a hefty slice of your hard-earned/ill-gotten.  Adel Taraabt is unlikely to come cheap either but is surely too good to be showcasing his dribbling abilities outside of the top flight.  It remains to be seen whether Taraabt’s famed inability to track back will include finding a route back to the Premiership by the start of next season.

I’m struggling to think of any Reading players. Not to buy, you understand.  I’m actually struggling to think of any Reading players.  If ever there is evidence that a team has outperformed just in getting to the top division, it’s that nobody wants any of your players when you go back down.  Good news for the Nigel Adkins rebuilding effort.  There is an outside chance someone will make a tentative enquiry of Pavel Pogrebnyak, I suppose.  However, I am prepared to engage in a small wager with any reader that there will be no Reading players lacing up top-flight boots come August.

There is one obvious problem with dipping into the relegation well.  These players have a proven track record of dragging teams down a division.  For every Ashley Young you’ve rescued from the morass, there’s a Hermann Hreidarsson just dying to add your beloved team to his relegation collection.  If you celebrate mediocrity, the mediocre is surely what you will end up with.  And the final league table, like Shakira’s hips, don’t lie.  But keep looking.  Keep your eyes peeled.  For there be nuggets of gold in those troubled waters…

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Any idea who this is? It’s the Reading captain and he played every single league game for them last year.

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Principles or pragmatism? The Lady Macbeth guide to sacking Mancini

16 May

I’m beginning to think this blog is cursed.  In a week when Wigan exposed Manchester City’s fleshy behind at Wembley, one would have assumed that this was embarrassment enough for the chaps from East Manchester.  Not so.  The footballing gods demanded further sacrifice. 

Despite guiding Manchester City to their first league title since before Sheikh Mansour was born, Roberto Mancini was invited in for a “meeting without coffee” with the City top brass and politely asked to pack his things.  Three trophies in three years.  Two cup finals.  Champions League football secured every single season.  It wasn’t good enough.  The mind boggles as much as the heart despairs.

People forget, but bookmakers had Manchester City at a mere 5 to 1 (17%) to win the 2011/12 premier league.  The year before that we scraped 3rd place thanks to a final day Chelsea capitulation, in a season spent mostly battling it out with Spurs for 4th.  The scarf-toting Italian won the league ahead of schedule and is now being punished for it.

My official Too Good-branded cotton pyjamas have been wringing with nervous sweat following three sleepless post-Mancini nights.  The Premiership top-table feels like it is at a critical juncture.   With United and Chelsea both chopping and changing their managers, this was a rare opportunity for City to capitalise on comparative stability.  Instead, we have sportingly levelled the playing field by giving Bob the boot, too.  Our owners displaying a hitherto unseen sense of fair play.  We’ve joined the uncertainty and it doesn’t feel very nice.

There are two ways of looking at the Mancini sacking.  There is the “principled approach” and then there’s the “pragmatic approach”.  The “principled approach” says we should have stuck with him.  There is simply no way he deserved to be sacked.  Without any hint of exaggeration, he gave Manchester City fans what, for many of them, will be the greatest singular moment of their lives.  No team wins the Premiership every year, and City had every reason to expect to be right up there again next May.  Especially so, given the recent departure down the road.

Then there is the “pragmatic approach”.  Principle’s uglier sister.  Brace yourself readers; the pragmatic approach is a far more sinister affair.  However, there is a time for the blunt edge of pragmatism.  For in nature there are neither rewards nor punishments, only consequences.

The “pragmatic approach” says that if Mourinho agrees to come, then it’s worth getting rid of Mancini.  Not a nice thing to do, granted, but sometimes you’ve got to make a pact with the devil.  Nobody wanted to get rid of Lee Sharpe.  But if you’ve got a Ryan Giggs waiting in (/on) the wing, then it doesn’t matter.  Pontius Pilate knew better than most that, while there was a time to keep your hands clean in the first place, there was also a time to give them a good post-backstabbing scrub.

Here’s the thing, though.  The pragmatic approach has to be worth it.  Pragmatism is an ugly bedfellow and one ought not to take it home from the night-club all too often.  As the saying goes, you can shear a sheep many times; you can skin it only once.  If City were going to skin Mancini, there had to be a damn good reason.

Mourinho provides reason enough for the moral compromise.  He is the outstanding manager of his generation.  I was flabbergasted when it became clear he was not Manchester United’s first choice to replace Ferguson.  Mourinho to United was the Doomsday scenario for me.  Another 26 trophy-laden years of misery.  Thankfully, the power men at Old Trafford came to the conclusion that the defining factor in Ferguson’s success was his Scottishness rather than his managerial brilliance. 

Those who tar Mourinho with the trouble-maker brush miss the bigger picture.  Jose might be fond of a little “creative tension” but his record is exceptional.  Two European Cups in his first decade of management.  League titles wherever he has gone.  Remember the nine year unbeaten home league record?  The time for compromising your principles is when you think a Mourinho-sized fish might fancy a nibble.

Except, of course, that it doesn’t look like the new City manager will be Mourinho.  It looks like it’s going to be Manuel Pellegrini.  Pellegrini is a fine manager and may, if hired, prove to be a success at City.  But then so was Mancini.  Why take the risk?  Why go through the upheaval?  Simply put, Pellegrini is not worth wielding the pragmatic sword for. 

The other great fear now is a backlash against the new manager.  The analogy is clear between City and Chelsea.  Chelsea fans cannot bring themselves to complain about Roman Abramovic, even though the mad oligarch goes through managers like I do portions of potato dauphinoise.  So Chelsea fans direct their ire towards the new coach instead.  Let’s hope Mancini’s successor is not subject to any similar misplaced anger.  

One thing you can be quite sure of – you won’t see any mass demonstrations outside the Etihad calling for the billionaire oil men to take their money elsewhere, whoever they choose.  We know which side our bread’s buttered on.  And there’s an awful lot of butter on that bread.  Like a good trophy wife, we’ll keep our mouths shut.  After all, rich husbands are in short supply.

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“A pleasure to have you on board, Mr Mourinho.”

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Fergie

9 May

So that’s it, then.  Lord Voldemort finally hangs up his evil hood.  The original dark Knight is leaving Gotham City.  A helpline has presumably been set up for United fans terrified of a Fergie-free future.  Concerned well-wishers will be keeping a 24-hour vigil on Mike Phelan.  I couldn’t lace my own shoes when Alex Ferguson first took charge of Manchester United in 1986.  The DVD was still a decade away from mass production.  George Michael had yet to crash his first Range Rover in a ganja-fuelled haze.

I don’t like Alex Ferguson.  I think the English game is sourer as a result of him.  I disagree with the apologists who say you need a mean streak to make it to the top.  You don’t.  Pep Guardiola’s an absolute gentleman.  Roger Federer behaves impeccably.  When he’s not flogging pills to the stricken, Pele seems like a lovely bloke.  Unlike the sycophants of the national press, Stockhom Syndrome never took root in this football fan.

Pre-Ferguson, managers would never stoop to suggesting that another team wouldn’t try very hard just to stop Manchester United from winning a title (the comment which so riled Kevin Keegan and resulted in the “love it” outburst).  This wasn’t “mind games”, as it came to be lauded.  This was a lowering of the accepted level of courtesy that managers extended to other teams.  Keegan couldn’t believe that Ferguson would openly accuse other professionals of not doing their job properly.  It was anathema to him.  Yet we laughed at Keegan for his naiveté and praised Ferguson for his cunning.

A consummate list of Ferguson’s behavioural shortcomings would require a fleet of historians and a well of ink the size of the Mariana trench.  You know them all, anyway.  Whether it be accusing match officials of not being fit, pulling his loan players out of Preston when they fired his son, Darren, or breaching the obligation to give post-match interviews to the BBC for seven years.  It was the Scot that introduced the “tactic” of players deliberately mobbing refs after an incident, in the hope of persuading a decision.  A grim behaviour soon adopted by other managers and sadly now the norm.  Suffice to say that the current level of bitterness and sniping displayed by many Premiership managers can in large part be traced to Ferguson’s lack of respect for other clubs, for referees and for the FA.

This will form part of Fergie’s legacy.  I’ll not be so churlish as to suggest this will be our abiding memory of the Glaswegian.  But nor will I sweep it under the carpet.

Against this, you have a man who history is likely to regard as Britain’s greatest ever manager.  Bob Paisely has one more European Cup to his name (the only manager in history to win it three times – in a breath-taking nine years).  Paisley, though, took over the best team in the land by a country mile at the height of England’s dominance of European waters.  Bill Shankly paved the way for Paisley, but Shankly has only a solitary UEFA Cup in terms of continental honours.  And the title of “Greatest Ever” isn’t just a matter of domestic life and death.  It’s much more important than that.

In tandem, Shankley and Paisley would probably lay claim to dominion.  Solo, Brian Clough is the only real contender.  With Derby, Cloughie took an unfancied side from the Midlands to the very top of the English league.  He then repeated the exact same feat with Forest and threw in a European Cup to boot.  To top it off, Clough won the European Cup again the following year as an encore.  He achieved this managing teams that had nothing like the infrastructure that Manchester United have.  Yet he’s won as many European Cups as Sir Alex.  It’s a close one to call.

What probably tips things in Ferguson’s favour is the sheer number of domestic league titles to his name.  He’s won more than double his nearest rival (13 to 6).  Astonishing stuff.  If I’d known in 1992-93 that another 12 titles would follow the first over the next 20 years, I might have put my Panini sticker albums into storage and taken up cricket.

His teams are gallant, as well.  From a footballing point of view, Ferguson’s sides are always good to watch.  They’ve had some of the best strike partnerships (and, latterly, trios) I’ve seen.  Providing the service, Ferguson has always favoured fast, skilful, swashbuckling wing play.  Time and time again, Sharpe, Kanchelskis, Giggs, Ronaldo, Nani and Valencia would take to the flanks and stretch teams to a merciless breaking point.  And when things aren’t going their way, United’s spirit in adversity is probably unmatched in world football.  Too Good’s Honorary Life President once described Manchester United needing a goal in the last ten minutes of a game as the most exciting thing in football.  He likened it to Disney’s Fantasia, with all manner of inanimate objects coming to life and dancing to an enchanted tune.   Ferguson as Mickey Mouse, pulling the strings and orchestrating the fight back.

Part of this will likely now ebb away over time.  All teams are inextricably linked to the imposition of their manager’s will.  Only Fergie can manage the Fergie way.  United will have to find another Sorcerer’s Apprentice to bring the broomsticks to life.  God knows, I wouldn’t fancy it.  On matchdays, the new boss will take his seat in the dug-out and stare out at a stand named after his predecessor.  Ferguson is quite literally part of the Old Trafford fabric.

Sir Alex is correct when he suggests that the club is being left in great shape.  He has bequeathed United a winning blend of youth and experience.  In Rafael, Jones, Smalling, de Gea, Welbeck, Zaha, Cleverley and Powell, United have a crop of youngsters that could yet become every bit as good as the fledglings.  Provided they get the right tutelage.  Alas, for United fans, the one thing Ferguson can’t leave behind is himself.

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The Drop

8 May

As a former Fugees vocalist found to her cost this week, only death and taxes are inevitable.  Nobody’s told Wigan this, though.  Roberto Martinez’s men have been cheating fate for years.  Three seasons running the master escapologists have smiled gaily into the jaws of the Championship.  Three times they lived to fight another day.  Is this the year that Wigan, like the miseducated Lauryn Hill, finally pay the piper?

A place in the relegation party remains up for grabs.  Three is the tragic number.  One more team will join the (not so) super-hoops of QPR and Reading in the Championship.  One more set of fans must brew the coffee extra-strong and brace themselves for 9 long months watching Manish Bhasin’s witching hour of Football League highlights.

Who will it be?  It’s a testimony to how tight it is that anyone up to Stoke in 11th could still drop.   The bottom half of the table is messier than a toddler after an ice-cream.  For the first time in a decade, a team could be relegated despite having reached the psychologically important 40 points barrier.  Too Good for the English Game asked Editor-in-Chief, Sonny Pike, for his scouting report on the teams a-teetering…

Newcastle.  It beggars belief that we are even discussing Newcastle.  Despite the mid-season loss of Demba Ba to Chelsea, Newcastle still have some of the most talented players in the Premiership.  How the hell are they down there?  Alan Pardew won’t be the first person to win Manager of the Year one season and be relegated the next (George Burley saw to that when his Ipswich team were found floating face down in the water in 2002), but it’s a rather ignominious list to join.  Surely a team that boasts the class of Hatem Ben Arfa, Fabricio Collocini, Yohann Cabaye and Papisse Cisse has enough to survive.

By contrast, Aston Villa and their tedious brand of football have been bothering and boring me in equal measure for years.  While most seasons I would be baying for their execution with all the fervour of a Daily Mail reader, I just can’t summon the anger this year.  Playing a team of sub-23 year olds has too much derring-do about it to wish them any ill-will.  Paul Lambert, himself a babe in arms in coaching terms, has also shown enough in his nascent managerial career to promise more.  It would be good to see his penniless Midlands project continue in the top-flight.

Heavy-spending Martin O’Neill has recently been at the helm of both Villa and fellow strugglers Sunderland.  Relegation for either won’t do his legacy a great deal of good.  The Black Cats play a not-yet-out-of-the woods Southampton at the weekend.  Then it’s on to White Hart Lane, against a Spurs side gunning for the Champions League.  Goal difference is Sunderland’s friend, though.  If Wigan pull off a fourth Houdini act, this buffer should still be enough for the Wearsiders to avoid playing games on a Friday night next year.

Wigan are huge sporting overachievers.  Their town has a top-flight football team and a Rugby League power-house.  Not bad for a populace half the size of Camden.  More so, given the yearly ritual for the Lancastrians to be fleeced of their best players.  Antonio Valencia.  Victor Moses.  Hugo Rodallega.  Mohammed Diame.  Charles N’Zogbia.  Lee Cattermole.  Wilson Palacios.  Every summer, teams with more of the folding stuff have rifled through the Latic’s squad like a box of Quality Street.  Eventually, you’re left with nothing but those odd-tasting green triangle ones.  Or, in Wigan’s case, Franco di Santo.  In theory, a solitary win on the final day against Villa could do it.  In reality, something at the Emirates is likely to be necessary.  Fingers crossed the Wiganers take it easy in the Cup Final so that they’re fresh…

Which leaves us with Norwich.  Norwich weren’t meant to play a part in this sorry tale.  But ever since Christmas, Delia’s lot have looked like they, too, have been at the sherry, dropping from 7th to 16th.  Failure to pick up points against West Brom puts the boozy pan-wielder’s boys in critical danger.  They play Manchester City on the final day, a team who have averaged 5 goals a game against the green and golds since their return to the Premiership.  I expect Wigan to get a result against Villa in Game 38 (who, by then, should be safe).  The Toon must also, surely, somehow beat a path to safety.  So when the bookmaker comes a-knocking, Too Good’s hard-earned/ill-gotten is going on the Canaries to fall down the mine-shaft.

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Norwich could do with a 12th man round about now.

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Nice guys finish first

3 May

I was the victim of a crime last night.  I shouldn’t grumble too much; it’s well documented that misdemeanours even themselves out over the long-term.  After all, I was a beneficiary of the greatest pickpocket of all time last May. 

However, last night my Barclays Bike was stolen as I nipped into Tescos to buy some chicken breasts.  I’d left the bike leaning against the glass shop-front, unattended.  So, in fairness, I only really have myself to blame.  On a similar note, Luis Suarez would probably concede that he, too, only has himself to blame for missing out on the recently announced player of the year awards.  But that makes the voting no less of a robbery than the theft which left me in tatters and without transport on a sunny evening in the Aldgate area.

For reasons yet to become clear, the journalists at Too Good Towers did not receive their ballot papers in time to vote for this year’s Football Writers’ Player of the Year.  Despite this oversight, Too Good can exclusively report that a mere two of the 400 journalists who made the cut plumped for Luis Suarez.  These journalists, many of them earning above the minimum wage, ought to expect their editors to wield the tactical axe in the coming days.  For there has been a clear dereliction of journalistic duty.

Suarez has scored more goals (30) than Robin van Persie (29) and Gareth Bale (24) this year and he’s done so with a better goals-to-game average.  One might be tempted to assume that Bale, a (nominally) deeper lying player, has more assists than Suarez.  Not true.  Suarez has 5 to Bale’s 4.  To put that into perspective, this means that Suarez has managed to get Liverpool players to score goals on five separate occasions this season.  Still not impressed?  One of them was Jordan Henderson.

It’s not just the bare statistics either, which never tell the full story.  Suarez is probably the best penalty-box dribbler currently in the game.  He’s as good as Messi at it.  Time and time again this season we have seen Suarez wriggle through massed ranks of opposition defenders in the most lethal area of the pitch.  His ability to emerge from seemingly impossible positions rarely seen this side of a Where’s Wally? annual.  He’s the slipperiest eel in world football.

Robin van Persie plays for one of the best teams in Europe.  Gareth Bale plays for a team that should still end up in the Champions League.  At the risk of exciting the flared nostrils and righteous indignation of Liverpool fans, Luis Suarez plays for Liverpool.  An average side who, but for his goals, would be staring at a bottom-half finish this season.  Goals of a stunning quality, including a moment of pure genius that few players on earth can produce.

I’ll lift the veil of innocence now as we draw to a close.  I do know why people didn’t vote for Luis Suarez.  They didn’t vote for him because he’s a dickhead.  They didn’t vote for him because he says ignorant things and nibbles on centre-backs.  None of which is likely to make him a Knight of the Realm any time soon.  That said, previous winners of the two player of the year awards include human beings who have committed all manner of impropriety, moral and legal (including, sadly, incidents of both racism and assault).  It’s a nice idea to give the award to the most upstanding chap on the pitch, but that just isn’t the criteria.  If it was, Gareth Southgate would have won the Ballon d’Or.  The player of the year award is for recognising the season’s best player.  The best player in England this season, for all his faults, was Luis Suarez.

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 Gareth Bale

Lovely Gareth was quick to show there was no hard feelings between him and Luis.

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A Ryder Cup for football?

29 Apr

As popular boy band JLS found to their cost, power shifts can be fast and brutal.  One minute you are kings of the kennel, the next you’re whimpering in the corner as One Direction become the new daddies of the dogs’ home.  We might be on the cusp of a similar changing of the guard in European football.

The football teams of Spain have been the undisputed alpha-dogs for some time now.  Yet Bayern Munich and Borussia Dortmund tore into the Spanish top two like they were week-old puppies.  Did the manner in which both Barcelona and Madrid were brought to heel by German foes, with such unquestioning obeyance, represent a wider shift in supremacy?  The new breed of Bavarian thoroughbreds certainly had tongues wagging.

National pride is at stake when arguments turn to who has the best league.  Even in countries with little home-grown talent, football fans delight in asserting that their teams are the strongest.  Everyone thinks they have the prettiest wife, as Arsene Wenger once put it.  In the first flourishes of the 21st Century, the English Premiership had good claim to being the pack leader.  This is palpably no longer the case.  The spin-doctors at Sky Sports tacitly acknowledged as much by revising their claim of the Premiership being “the best league in the world” to now calling it “the most exciting league in the world”.  A subtle tweak in vernacular that New Labour would be proud of.

From my perspective, the last 20 years has seen the crown perched a-top four different heads:

1993 -> 1999 Italy

2000 -> 2004 Spain

2004 -> 2009 England

2009 -> 2012 Spain

2013 – Germany…?

If I were to relent to the demands of argumentative geriatric, Ray Winston, and have a bet, I would wager that 2013 will be seen as a blip in the continuing Spanish reign.  The Cromwellian Bundesliga will push La Liga close but, ultimately, not relieve Spain of its hegemony.  This is only my opinion, of course.  And opinions, as they say, are like arseholes (everybody’s got one).  Wouldn’t it be nice if there was a way we could empirically assess which league was the strongest?  Well it just so happens I have a suggestion…

Introducing the Platini Plate: “the Ryder Cup of Football”.  Europe’s top leagues compete against each other – 1st plays 1st, 2nd plays 2nd, right down to 20th plays 20th.  A win scores one point and a draw gets you a half.  Football schedules are already more cramped than Ricki Lake in a 2-door Jag, so let’s keep it biannual, taking place during the pre-season of every odd year.  Rather than the frankly unwatchable friendlies currently in situ, you would have Bayern Munich versus Manchester United, Borussia Dortmund versus Manchester City, right down to the grudge match of Reading versus Greuther Freuth.  It could work on either an invitational basis (the Premiership could challenge a different league every two years), or the country of the previous year’s Champions League winners could play the defending champions of the Platini Plate.  The title of “Europe’s Strongest League” would pass back-and-forth like a boxing belt.

The beauty of the Platini Plate (I’m working on a better name.  Suggestions welcome…) is it’s no use having one or two powerhouses in a league otherwise full of carthorses.  The criticism, unfairly in my view, that La Liga comprises of Real Madrid, Barcelona and 18 whipping boys could be put to the test.  Would Norwich beat Athletic Bilbao in the battle of 14th place?  Are Valencia really going to struggle against their 6th place counterparts, Everton?  Champions League teams are, in reality, outliers, rather than indicative of a league’s strength in depth.  This tournament is more interested in the mean average than the cream of the crop.

Would the viewing public be interested in such a contest?  I think they would lap it up.  The match-ups could be staggered over 4 days, building up to a crescendo as the last two teams do battle in a potentially thrilling finale.  Since games would overlap with each other, the red button would be your friend.  Think of the excitement as Martin Tyler announces “there’s been a goal at the Britannia…”.  Cue cheers across the nation as the screen-within-screen shows John Walters firing Stoke into a 2-0 lead against Real Vallodolid.  A point safely in the bag there by the Potters.

As for the players, I can’t help but feel that they would be stirred by a mixture of patriotism (for some, at least) and a desire to demonstrate that they play in the best league in the world.  Everyone likes to think that they work in the most demanding environment.  Here is a chance for players to prove their league is pre-eminent.  You would think Rickie Lambert would jump at the opportunity to show he can score goals against defences across Europe.  And, with Liverpool looking like an absentee from Europe next year, Luis Suarez would presumably be dying to sink his teeth into, well, you get the picture.

So what do you think, Mr Platini?  I’ll not charge a penny for the idea.  It’s yours to do with as you wish.  In lieu of payment, I ask only that you take a flexible attitude to Manchester City when the Financial Fair Play Rules come into force next year.  Do we have ourselves a deal?

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You’re so manly, Ray.  I wish my Granddad was as cool as you.

CORRECTION:
After much brow-furrowing and some careful use of the Too Good abacus, it became apparent that there are only 18 teams in the Bundesliga.  In the spirit of the Ryder Cup, Germany are therefore allowed two wild card picks.  Welcome to the party Eintracht Braunschweiger and Hertha Berlin.  The Spanish, Italian, French and English teams all have 20 teams in their top-flight at the time of writing.

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Spurs 3 v Man City 1 (21 April, 2013)

21 Apr

George Graham was always keen to tell us that the league season is a marathon not a sprint.  Surely though, as the sprightly of limb geared up for a 26 mile race across the nation’s capital, what the Hotspurs of North London now needed was a sprint finish.  Last weekend saw a man from Tyneside pick a fight with a horse.  Had Spurs similarly bitten off more than they could chew in thinking they could secure a Champions League berth?  A loss today would confirm Tottenham’s place as perennially adorned in a bridesmaid’s dress at the wedding ceremony of the Top 4.

For Manchester City, their grasp on the Premiership crown is now weaker than Charlie Sheen’s grip on reality.  Today was a day for some big reputations to prove they still wanted to lace up their sneakers for next year’s foot-race to the title.

In a week where the BBC’s Panorama programme achieved the impossible and actually found a use for students, Roberto Mancini also pulled off an unlikely success.  Rather than using undergraduates as a human shield to enter North Korea, Mancini did something equally impressive and got a performance out of Samir Nasri.  Nasri was my vote for the 2010/11 Premiership season’s best player (along with Luis Nani, as incredible as this all now sounds).  To say that he has some way to go to rediscover that kind of form would rival Alan Shearer’s ability for stating the bleeding obvious.

Nasri was out of the starting blocks on the “B” of “Bang” today, though.  Five minutes in, some sharp team-work down the right flank by Tevez and Milner allowed Slammin’ Sammi to direct his volley into an unguarded corner of the net.

The enthral of the opening goal was all in the build up.  Such was the cuteness of the angle with which Carlos Tevez’s pass circumnavigated Scott Parker, one couldn’t help but be filled with both admiration for Tevez and pity for Parker.  The English terrier was made to look like he had five seconds to find his car keys before an explosive device would detonate, but was only allowed to turn clockwise in order to find them.  The former McDonalds brand evangelist could only look on in a daze as City went a goal to the good.

There’s something bordering on the sexual in having Gareth Barry in your team.  Sure, on the one hand, he’d lose a footrace against continental drift.  But his metronomic ability to keep the ball moving back and forth to the creative hub of the City side makes him indispensable.  I remain convinced that allowing Nigel De Jong to leave in the summer was a big error, but it shows the faith placed in Barry that this was allowed to happen.

A messy incident occurred a few years back when the Queen wrung the neck of a pheasant while out on a hunt.  Such behaviour brought hoots of derision from conscientious animal-lovers, while Buckingham Palace defended the actions by stating that it was “clearly the most effective and humane way of despatching the injured bird”.  Watching Manchester City today, part of me longed for Her Majesty’s cold-blooded decisiveness when confronted with a wounded animal.  City had injured Spurs, but not fatally.  By not twisting the knife, a backlash was always a possibility.  And what a backlash it proved to be.

The pick-pocketing couldn’t have been more apparent if AVB had wondered over to the City technical area and pinched a trail of handkerchiefs from Roberto Mancini’s jacket pocket.  City lurched from a slender one-goal lead to an insurmountable 3-1 down in seven hurricane minutes.  First, Clint Dempsey profited from a quick-thinking prod across the box by the Welsh Ronaldo.  Second, Jermaine Defoe (on for Emmanuel Adebayor, who had shown about as little endeavour as I had during my Grade 1 violin lessons) rifled in a bullet from a wide angle to put the Lilywhites into the lead.

Tottenham’s third was finished by Bale himself.  A cool chip from just inside the penalty area left Joe Hart and his charmingly outdated haircut completely stranded.  The come-back was complete.  A revival which, on 70 minutes, wouldn’t have been more startling if Maggie herself had emerged from her recently constructed coffin door.

An occasional criticism of Mancini is that he lacks a certain lightness of spirit and a sense of humour.  Our wily coach disproved both of these accusations in an instance by introducing Scott Sinclair with ten minutes to go.  During this process, Sergio Aguerro remained tracksuited and at ease.  It’s at times like this that the mind boggles as much as the heart despairs.

AVB’s post-match interview voice continues to sound like a lump of pavement being dragged over a cattle grid.  It was difficult to ascertain much from his grumblings other than that the man was badly in need of a lozenge.  Surely though, the Argos Mourinho was deep in contemplation of the need to avoid another run of Thursday night UEFA cup games.  One suspects the pull of ITV4 won’t prove enough of an appeal to Gareth Bale’s sense of loyalty for him to stick around for another year.  And it’s hard to imagine a Bale-less Spurs getting into the Champions League in the seasons to come.  It is therefore hard to overestimate the importance of their next 5 games.  Twelve points at the very minimum are a must.  Failing that, the auction for Tottenham’s golden goose commences on May 19th.

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The City team lacked a dispassionate killer in their ranks to protect against a Tottenham charge.

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