You know that the season is upon you, and one in the Championship at that, when you have to put The Football League Show on series link on your Sky+ box. Unfortunately, asking myself last season 'who watches this crap at half midnight on a Saturday night?' has severely come back to haunt me.
'You, Ed. You watch it. You watch Dele Adebola and Lewis McGugan and other useless-sounding strikers thump volleys past your hapless keeper, when really, you should be in bed'.
No, it can't be all bad. I can't have been lured in merely by the blandness of Manish Bhasin, when I'd much rather have the smug superiority of Gary Lineker, can I? There must be more to this Championship lark. Oh yes, I remember, we were only there 3 years ago... It was dire. And we got promotion. Imagine how bad it'll be when our season's over by November?
But of course! It doesn't happen like that, because the Championship is a proper league! A league where excitement is rife, where the top 6 positions aren't set in stone! Our season won't be over by November, it won't even be over by April, most likely. Who knows, when we line up to play Stoke in Bucharest in the Europa League final in the middle of May, it still might not be over.
Okay, perhaps being in the Championship once again has turned me into something of a fantasist. However, I am quite looking forward to the mystery of the 46 game season, plus a European adventure. I'll ride the 2011-2012 season like a shaman, twisting and contorting with every goal we score and concede in our new approach to the game. I'm quite looking forward to seeing what this attacking football lark is all about, while our friends the other side of the expressway in B6 start to eat their own fingers through boredom.
For me, this new season will be a mystery. I have absolutely no idea whether we should beat Derby on Saturday. Does Ravanelli still play for them? More intriguingly, I don't recognise the name Neil Swarbrick. In contrast to the inbuilt sigh I let out when I find out Phil Dowd or Howard Webb is the referee, the reaction to Mr Swarbrick's appointment was refreshingly neutral. He'll probably be crap, and I'll long for the Robocop ways of Webb once more.
Admittedly, the Blues won't be on the front of 'Match' Magazine anytime soon, but given that I'm no longer 8 years old, that doesn't really bother me. I also don't have to pretend that I'm excited by the prospect of playing at Old Trafford once more, 'cos it's all shiny and that and has a megastore, isn't it?' That might sound bitter, but honestly, it's not. I always get excited by the Blues playing, but last season, playing Man United, Chelsea and Liverpool away all in quick succession, and losing all three comprehensively, by the end, I didn't even bother looking at the score, I just waited until I picked up from somewhere that we'd been beaten resoundingly. But that can't happen this season, because I don't know where we should be finishing. Some Blues fans say survival would be a good season, others say anything less than promotion should be deemed as failure. Me? I'd be happy just seeing a few goals.
Currently, the Blues seem to be on a continuous cycle of dull season followed by exciting-bordering-on-catastrophic. This season, judging by the cycle, should see us meander into mid-table obscurity, whilst next year will either witness St. Andrews being burned to the ground or Lionel Messi signing for the club.
Having witnessed a cup win and 7 years in the top flight during my time as a supporter, I'm deemed lucky by those older than me. The reality is, that although opposing fans view our relegations as ammunition for laughter and mockery, anything else should be seen as a surprise. Blues have always been a good Second Division/First Division/Championship side, never a very good First Division/Premiership/Premier League team.
In summary, the Championship, with its wide raft of towns and cities that sound a bit crap but are probably a good laugh, will actually be one of the more enjoyable seasons I've had. I've already pin-pointed which towns I'll be visiting on which weekends, in order to coincide university visits to friends. I'm lamenting the lack of a Watford University already...
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Monday, May 9, 2011
The 2010-11 Season: A Blues Review
This last season, Blues fan or otherwise, would have been a particularly frenetic, emotional and strange season anyway, even without taking into account the death of my best friend and Dad. Yet for me, it will of course have particular resonance. Having been to a record number of games this season (27, if you're wondering), I feel I have been more involved than ever before, and have, as the cliché goes, 'kicked every ball'. Therefore I feel in a better position than most to take a light-hearted (yet inevitably tinged with sadness) look at the season gone by.
August: I spent most of the first game of the season, away at Sunderland, knocking my new cricket bat in. You could tell what the score was by the pace that I hammered this new bit of wood with (ooh, matron!). When Sunderland went 2-0 up, it was reduced to a funeral march, yet as Blues made a late rally, the rate increased to a frenetic pace, in time with various terrace chants. On to the first home game, which, after much deliberation, we would attend with our season tickets. It was only then that I realised what an irrational hatred my Dad had of Paul Robinson, the Blackburn keeper. After a slightly-bad-but-by-no-means-catastrophic gaffe by Robinson, Dad began to gesticulate wildly at the big screen which showed England's Number 5 looking rather distraught. I assume he was distraught at the mistake, but my Dad was an influential bloke...
September: Incredibly, the game against Liverpool was the first game I'd ever attended, after 13 years of service, without my Dad. Luckily, a certain Chelsea fan found a common ground in the hatred of Scousers, and volunteered to come along. I soon realised how much Roy Hodgson ressembled the Maggie Thatcher doll from Spitting Image.
October: The month we started to believe that our name was on the Carling Cup, after a lucky shoot-out win against the giants of Brentford, I spent most of the derby against Villa pacing the Droitwich Lido, occasionally crouching down if my radio hinted at a goal. I came home, weighed myself, and realised I'd lost a stone.
November: What happened in November...? Did we even win any games? Clearly lost all memory in the snow and cold.
December: I've never been so sad at a Blues win. The disgusting scenes on the pitch after the cup win against Villa scarred and indeed scared me, and perhaps saddest of all, I could tell that any adulation my Dad might have felt immediately vanished. What horrified me most was the amount of people asking me seriously whether I was one of 'them' on the pitch. I have never been on the pitch at Blues, and, unless David Sullivan flies over with a jet hose spraying the Tilton end, probably never will be.
January: My favourite Christmas present this year was a DVD of the Blues' greatest goals. I didn't even know the Blues made things like that, I thought it was reserved for good teams, like Man United or Chelsea. Come to think of it, one of our 'great' goalscorers did look a lot like Zola... My favourite goal on the DVD was a heavily-disputed offside goal, where a bloke looking strangely like my Uncle Mick ran on to remonstrate with the linesman. My first away match in a long time came at the surprisingly smart Bloomfield Road, where my Dad lost his glasses, again, wildly gesticulating and knocking them off. My favourite moment of the season? Getting a wave from local radio commentator and all-round strange bloke Tom Ross. Or, as some might call him, Ron Toss.
February: It's so appropriate that the last Blues goal my Dad saw was at our end, the Tilton End, scored by true Brummie and modern hero Craig Gardner. It was only a week before that 'Our Craig' had fired us into the Carling Cup final, and I'd been jumped on by a 48 year old man wearing a suit. Yes, my Dad again. It was typical that, given the Blues' contrary ways, the team would break a run of 6 games at Upton Park without a win the day after Dad died. February 2011 will mean two things to me. The obvious to me, and the obvious to Blues fans: The Carling Cup final. From the moment the Arsenal keeper fumbled that long ball, I started blubbing, and only really stopped about 10 minutes after the final whistle. The emotions were so different that day to those in December: It almost seemed like the entire Blues community rallied round myself and Sarah; never before have I heard Keep Right On sung with such passion and feeling. Sure, it normally rouses the emotions, but this was something different.
March: Still coming down from that high...
April: As I've said before, travelling with 3000 Brummies all smelling of suntan lotion on numerous coaches in the searing heat, I could well have been on a package holiday. The difference was, this was Blackburn. To anyone who ever has the fortune to visit Ewood Park, I had a lovely bacon sandwich from a tiny little shop opposite the ground. No doubt soon enough it'll be transformed into a McDonalds, but the lad in there seemed like your stereotypical friendly Northerner!
May: The BBC Predictor is the spawn of the devil. Despite wanting to be told we'll be safe, the masochist in me has to tip a 5-0 Blackpool win over Man United on the final day, resulting in the Blues sat in the bottom three. There's only so far the yo-yo will stretch; if it is released again this summer, it might not bounce back.
And so on that cheery note, I realise that this season has been thoroughly mixed. The thing that, like a drug, is so more-ish, will always be the Blues, and despite the pain it puts me through, will always give me such great pleasure, that even if we do end up in the Championship next season, I'll tell myself that that's it, the well is dry, but I know, just like Chelsea, Leeds, Lincoln, fans of whoever, that it'll be 'same time, same place, see you in August'.
August: I spent most of the first game of the season, away at Sunderland, knocking my new cricket bat in. You could tell what the score was by the pace that I hammered this new bit of wood with (ooh, matron!). When Sunderland went 2-0 up, it was reduced to a funeral march, yet as Blues made a late rally, the rate increased to a frenetic pace, in time with various terrace chants. On to the first home game, which, after much deliberation, we would attend with our season tickets. It was only then that I realised what an irrational hatred my Dad had of Paul Robinson, the Blackburn keeper. After a slightly-bad-but-by-no-means-catastrophic gaffe by Robinson, Dad began to gesticulate wildly at the big screen which showed England's Number 5 looking rather distraught. I assume he was distraught at the mistake, but my Dad was an influential bloke...
September: Incredibly, the game against Liverpool was the first game I'd ever attended, after 13 years of service, without my Dad. Luckily, a certain Chelsea fan found a common ground in the hatred of Scousers, and volunteered to come along. I soon realised how much Roy Hodgson ressembled the Maggie Thatcher doll from Spitting Image.
October: The month we started to believe that our name was on the Carling Cup, after a lucky shoot-out win against the giants of Brentford, I spent most of the derby against Villa pacing the Droitwich Lido, occasionally crouching down if my radio hinted at a goal. I came home, weighed myself, and realised I'd lost a stone.
November: What happened in November...? Did we even win any games? Clearly lost all memory in the snow and cold.
December: I've never been so sad at a Blues win. The disgusting scenes on the pitch after the cup win against Villa scarred and indeed scared me, and perhaps saddest of all, I could tell that any adulation my Dad might have felt immediately vanished. What horrified me most was the amount of people asking me seriously whether I was one of 'them' on the pitch. I have never been on the pitch at Blues, and, unless David Sullivan flies over with a jet hose spraying the Tilton end, probably never will be.
January: My favourite Christmas present this year was a DVD of the Blues' greatest goals. I didn't even know the Blues made things like that, I thought it was reserved for good teams, like Man United or Chelsea. Come to think of it, one of our 'great' goalscorers did look a lot like Zola... My favourite goal on the DVD was a heavily-disputed offside goal, where a bloke looking strangely like my Uncle Mick ran on to remonstrate with the linesman. My first away match in a long time came at the surprisingly smart Bloomfield Road, where my Dad lost his glasses, again, wildly gesticulating and knocking them off. My favourite moment of the season? Getting a wave from local radio commentator and all-round strange bloke Tom Ross. Or, as some might call him, Ron Toss.
February: It's so appropriate that the last Blues goal my Dad saw was at our end, the Tilton End, scored by true Brummie and modern hero Craig Gardner. It was only a week before that 'Our Craig' had fired us into the Carling Cup final, and I'd been jumped on by a 48 year old man wearing a suit. Yes, my Dad again. It was typical that, given the Blues' contrary ways, the team would break a run of 6 games at Upton Park without a win the day after Dad died. February 2011 will mean two things to me. The obvious to me, and the obvious to Blues fans: The Carling Cup final. From the moment the Arsenal keeper fumbled that long ball, I started blubbing, and only really stopped about 10 minutes after the final whistle. The emotions were so different that day to those in December: It almost seemed like the entire Blues community rallied round myself and Sarah; never before have I heard Keep Right On sung with such passion and feeling. Sure, it normally rouses the emotions, but this was something different.
March: Still coming down from that high...
April: As I've said before, travelling with 3000 Brummies all smelling of suntan lotion on numerous coaches in the searing heat, I could well have been on a package holiday. The difference was, this was Blackburn. To anyone who ever has the fortune to visit Ewood Park, I had a lovely bacon sandwich from a tiny little shop opposite the ground. No doubt soon enough it'll be transformed into a McDonalds, but the lad in there seemed like your stereotypical friendly Northerner!
May: The BBC Predictor is the spawn of the devil. Despite wanting to be told we'll be safe, the masochist in me has to tip a 5-0 Blackpool win over Man United on the final day, resulting in the Blues sat in the bottom three. There's only so far the yo-yo will stretch; if it is released again this summer, it might not bounce back.
And so on that cheery note, I realise that this season has been thoroughly mixed. The thing that, like a drug, is so more-ish, will always be the Blues, and despite the pain it puts me through, will always give me such great pleasure, that even if we do end up in the Championship next season, I'll tell myself that that's it, the well is dry, but I know, just like Chelsea, Leeds, Lincoln, fans of whoever, that it'll be 'same time, same place, see you in August'.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Identity Crisis?
Next Wednesday, many of my friends will be scrabbling around for fake ID, frantically searching for any way possible to enter nightclubs, even if it means through the toilet window. Because the 1st December is of course, The Big Rugby Match (C), the Clash of the Titans (TM) and the Best of Enemies fight. Or am I getting confused with David Haye v Audley Harrison? Never mind. Anyhow, the only identification I will be needing that night will be my Birmingham City season ticket, and my blue and white scarf. For next week, ladies and gentlemen, is probably, for me, the most eagerly awaited match I've ever known- Blues v Villa in the quarter-finals of the cup.
It's not that I have anything against the rugby match. Please don't think that, I think it's fantastic how people turn out, and you can guarantee that under any normal circumstances, I'd be there too. However, 'Grammar till I die' isn't strictly true, is it? We're only really Grammar till next year. Supporting a football team, well, that's a slightly different matter, isn't it?
I was wondering, what makes a Blues fan a Blues fan? What makes a Wolves fan a Wolves fan (aside from of course, the fact that you're a pikey and your sister is also your mother)? What makes a Gateshead United fan so firmly dedicated to their team? Why can we not just throw aside these loyalties and forget about football apart from the odd 90 minutes here and there? It's the question that has baffled non-football fans for decades, and probably football fans too, if truth be told. I used to laugh it off, claim it to be genetic, blame it on my Dad, anything to skirt the issue. But although the superficial reasons are tempting, it will only hold off the inevitable inquest later in life, when I regret passing up a date to see Blues play Huddersfield.
I'm not sure whether I'm more fanatic than most of my friends about my team, or whether I just fail at hiding it. I asked somebody recently what was my worst quality (I'm not entirely sure why, in hindsight, it makes me seem like a self-obsessed arse). She, without hesitation, said that I get too upset at football too easily. It's probably true. Two years ago, I refused to commit myself to my Year 11 prom in case the Blues were playing. The first thing I check when somebody asks whether I'd like to come out is whether the Blues have a game or not. I don't regret it for one second. But why do I feel such an attachment to this particular group of men running around in coloured shirts?
Yesterday, I found a website detailing every single Blues match, and from the mid 90-s onwards, the team and scorers from each game. I could hardly contain myself. I found my first game (versus Port Vale, 21/08/1999, we won 4-2), relived some of my greatest memories, and generally just had a good old wander down Memory Lane. I was almost euphoric with glee. The thing that surprised me most was how good my memory of certain matches was. I remembered going to a night match in half term to see us play Gillingham, and vividly remember Marcelo scoring a 90th minute winner. (I only remember it because I think I compared the ecstasy surrounding me to that moment in Chicken Run when the chickens eventually escape). I also had a vague inkling that it was 'Kids for a Quid', and sure enough, the attendance was over 26,000! I also remember coming out of a game against the Wolves, miserable, with my Dad saying 'well, that was like watching a goalless draw, they scored so early'. Sure enough- 1/4/2001, Blues 0-1 Wolves, Ndah 1.' Now, if you were to ask me what I learned at school today... Not a chance.
This trip down Memory Lane also allowed me to go all misty-eyed over certain players, names that will mean nothing whatsoever to 91/92 clubs in the Football League and Premier League. Even my sister, who stopped going when we lost in the play-offs to Watford ('it's too depressing, seeing grown men cry'), occasionally yells 'Dele Adebola! He was playing when I went to watch them!' when he pops up on Soccer Saturday from time to time. Yes, he did play back then Sarah. And he still hasn't got a right foot.
Now, I'm well aware that that joke about one-footed Dele will mean nothing to the vast, vast majority of readers. But that is what is so incredible about being a supporter of a team. I have no desire to gain an encylopaedic knowledge of Everton, or Yeovil, for example. But my club, these names, like Mark Burchill (greedy b****** who looked like me), Christopher Wreh (next best thing? Useless!) and Stern John (in the last minute...!) will always have a resonance with me, just as, I don't know, Tomas Radzinksi will have a resonance with Everton fans. Like I said, I don't know.
I'm even not entirely sure why I hate the Villa so much. It's just so. But would I love the Blues as much if I didn't hate the Villa? My Dad and I had this discussion recently. With clubs like Sheffield Wednesday teetering on the brink of apocalypse, how do Sheffield United fans feel? Do they laugh? Would I laugh if the Villa went out of business? I'd probably miss the rivalry, but on the other hand, you could have a good chuckle to yourself. Before the league meeting a few weeks ago, I pondered whether I'd prefer the pragmatic win in the league to a victory over them in the cup. Years ago, I'd probably have said the league. But now, I'm well aware that after 17 years of supporting the Blues, my best memory isn't a glorious treble, not even a cup win, but a 94th minute equaliser. You can't really wax lyrical about a scrambled point in February, no matter how good it felt.
I'm fully aware I've posed more questions than answers in that article. But perhaps what it means to be a Blues fan can be summed up in the way that, following Chelsea's capitulation at the hands of Sunderland the other day, the Birmingham City forums were awash with people saying 'well, you know what this means, a Chelsea backlash'.
Or perhaps, more poetically, it can be summed up in three words: Keep. Right. On.
It's not that I have anything against the rugby match. Please don't think that, I think it's fantastic how people turn out, and you can guarantee that under any normal circumstances, I'd be there too. However, 'Grammar till I die' isn't strictly true, is it? We're only really Grammar till next year. Supporting a football team, well, that's a slightly different matter, isn't it?
I was wondering, what makes a Blues fan a Blues fan? What makes a Wolves fan a Wolves fan (aside from of course, the fact that you're a pikey and your sister is also your mother)? What makes a Gateshead United fan so firmly dedicated to their team? Why can we not just throw aside these loyalties and forget about football apart from the odd 90 minutes here and there? It's the question that has baffled non-football fans for decades, and probably football fans too, if truth be told. I used to laugh it off, claim it to be genetic, blame it on my Dad, anything to skirt the issue. But although the superficial reasons are tempting, it will only hold off the inevitable inquest later in life, when I regret passing up a date to see Blues play Huddersfield.
I'm not sure whether I'm more fanatic than most of my friends about my team, or whether I just fail at hiding it. I asked somebody recently what was my worst quality (I'm not entirely sure why, in hindsight, it makes me seem like a self-obsessed arse). She, without hesitation, said that I get too upset at football too easily. It's probably true. Two years ago, I refused to commit myself to my Year 11 prom in case the Blues were playing. The first thing I check when somebody asks whether I'd like to come out is whether the Blues have a game or not. I don't regret it for one second. But why do I feel such an attachment to this particular group of men running around in coloured shirts?
Yesterday, I found a website detailing every single Blues match, and from the mid 90-s onwards, the team and scorers from each game. I could hardly contain myself. I found my first game (versus Port Vale, 21/08/1999, we won 4-2), relived some of my greatest memories, and generally just had a good old wander down Memory Lane. I was almost euphoric with glee. The thing that surprised me most was how good my memory of certain matches was. I remembered going to a night match in half term to see us play Gillingham, and vividly remember Marcelo scoring a 90th minute winner. (I only remember it because I think I compared the ecstasy surrounding me to that moment in Chicken Run when the chickens eventually escape). I also had a vague inkling that it was 'Kids for a Quid', and sure enough, the attendance was over 26,000! I also remember coming out of a game against the Wolves, miserable, with my Dad saying 'well, that was like watching a goalless draw, they scored so early'. Sure enough- 1/4/2001, Blues 0-1 Wolves, Ndah 1.' Now, if you were to ask me what I learned at school today... Not a chance.
This trip down Memory Lane also allowed me to go all misty-eyed over certain players, names that will mean nothing whatsoever to 91/92 clubs in the Football League and Premier League. Even my sister, who stopped going when we lost in the play-offs to Watford ('it's too depressing, seeing grown men cry'), occasionally yells 'Dele Adebola! He was playing when I went to watch them!' when he pops up on Soccer Saturday from time to time. Yes, he did play back then Sarah. And he still hasn't got a right foot.
Now, I'm well aware that that joke about one-footed Dele will mean nothing to the vast, vast majority of readers. But that is what is so incredible about being a supporter of a team. I have no desire to gain an encylopaedic knowledge of Everton, or Yeovil, for example. But my club, these names, like Mark Burchill (greedy b****** who looked like me), Christopher Wreh (next best thing? Useless!) and Stern John (in the last minute...!) will always have a resonance with me, just as, I don't know, Tomas Radzinksi will have a resonance with Everton fans. Like I said, I don't know.
I'm even not entirely sure why I hate the Villa so much. It's just so. But would I love the Blues as much if I didn't hate the Villa? My Dad and I had this discussion recently. With clubs like Sheffield Wednesday teetering on the brink of apocalypse, how do Sheffield United fans feel? Do they laugh? Would I laugh if the Villa went out of business? I'd probably miss the rivalry, but on the other hand, you could have a good chuckle to yourself. Before the league meeting a few weeks ago, I pondered whether I'd prefer the pragmatic win in the league to a victory over them in the cup. Years ago, I'd probably have said the league. But now, I'm well aware that after 17 years of supporting the Blues, my best memory isn't a glorious treble, not even a cup win, but a 94th minute equaliser. You can't really wax lyrical about a scrambled point in February, no matter how good it felt.
I'm fully aware I've posed more questions than answers in that article. But perhaps what it means to be a Blues fan can be summed up in the way that, following Chelsea's capitulation at the hands of Sunderland the other day, the Birmingham City forums were awash with people saying 'well, you know what this means, a Chelsea backlash'.
Or perhaps, more poetically, it can be summed up in three words: Keep. Right. On.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
'Back On My Old Stomping Ground'
Here I am, back on blogspot, grovelling at the doorstep, for a brief foray into the world I once knew. The reason? This blog doesn't really fit in with my Videojug account. So, what has the first quarter of the season taught us?
1. Chelsea aren't as brilliant as we first thought, but they'll still easily win the league. When they played the mighty footballing forces of Wigan, West Brom and Blackpool, and swept all before them, some thought that they'd prove to be the best team ever. They aren't, as disappointing performances at Villa and Man City proved. However, the other teams in the division are far too inconsistent to mount a decent challenge. Arsenal may have learned how to win ugly, but the real test will be whether they can win at places like St Andrews, Molineux, the Reebok. If Manchester United are in touch as we move into February, they have a decent chance, but it's impossible to look past Chelsea.
2. Money eventually talks. Whilst Man City won't win the title this season, the signs are there that, with the right stewardship, they will eventually be serious title challengers. He may have taken the Josef Stalin approach to management, the 'if I put enough players in the ranks, I can't lose' tactic, but Mancini is not the right man. Not only is his name, in the same fashion as Arsene's, far too similar to his club's to be taken seriously, he is far too negative. I could win the games that Mancini has this season, finishing 4th is not good enough.
3. The Championship is a lot duller without the Albion. Usually, the bi-annual tour of the Championship from West Brom adds some excitement to the second tier, but this season, they're not in it, and neither are the Wolves. Sure, it's funny to see Leeds struggle, but without a vested interest, the Championship passes me by.
4. There simply aren't enough good referees. Michael Oliver, Stuart Attwell, Anthony Taylor and Mike Jones are too young and too inexperienced to be refereeing at this level. Some of the decisions have been laughable this season, and unfortunately, we seem to have been on the wrong end of more than most. Martin Atkinson seems to have a personal vendetta against Blues, and should simply never be allowed to referee us again. You can bet your bottom dollar that had two shocking penalty decisions gone against Sir Alex Ferguson, Atkinson would never have darkened Old Trafford's door again.
5. The offside law needs re-writing. Far too many times this season, the offside law has been interpreted to the letter, and as such, the wrong decisions have been made. It's not the application of the law that needs looking at, it's the law itself.
6. Monday Night Football is still just as dour as ever. It didn't take long for the MNF games we know and love to replace the seemingly fantastic games that Sky showed at the start of the year. You don't watch MNF to see Manchester United v Liverpool. You watch it to see Blackburn v Wigan, or Charlton v Middlesbrough. What? Neither of those teams are in the Premier League anymore? Why are Sky even having MNF then?
7. Alex McLeish may not be the most tactically astute manager the Blues will ever have, but he's probably the most magnanimous and genuine. His refusal to criticse referees must be applauded, and the way he spoke about how the Blues players must 'button it' in the face of poor decisions brought a smile to this referee's face.
8. Clarke Carlisle should've spent more time training, and less time reading. Did we really have to be subjected to that tripe on a Monday night? He talked non-stop, about nothing in particular. I know he's supposed to be the cleverest player in England, but he was worse than Andy Gray. And he's shocking.
9. I'd rather watch the Carling Cup than the Champions League. The only matches I've wanted to watch this season have been Inter v Spurs, and Man Utd v Rangers. Simply, nobody cares if Arsenal put 4 past Rag-Arse Rabotnicki, or Pub-Team Belgrade. Contrast that with the stories that have been emanating from the 'much-maligned Carling Cup' (TM). Lee Hughes at Wolves. Brentford. Kevin Phillips desperate for some silverware at last. The most eagerly-anticipated Midlands derby since 2002. You can have your prawn-sandwiched Champions League, while I'll have a pie and a pint at the Carling Cup.
10. Whisper it, but Avram Grant might actually not be that good a manager. Yes, he performed admirably at Pompey, but there was no pressure and their FA Cup campaign was given a huge helping hand from Sepp Blatter and his anti-goal line tecnology crusade, and a linesman's decision that will always haunt me if I never see us win a trophy. West Ham got rid of chipmunk lookalike Zola, and replaced him with Herman Munster's butler. With pressure from the eel-munchers at Upton Park, Grant has started terribly.
11. It's much harder to hate Liverpool with Woy in charge. I hate that I don't hate Woy Hodgson. Why can't I just hate Liverpool like I used to, with that smirking Fat Spanish Waiter in charge? With a bit of luck, the Americans will fail to realise that Woy will turn it round, and is a fantastic manager, and they'll get rid of him and appoint some whooping Yank.
So there we go. It used to be claimed that the only thing that was certain of the Premier League is its uncertainty, but now I feel the only thing that is certain is that Chelsea will win the league. The relegation battle, much though Sky would hate to admit it, is far more intriguing.
1. Chelsea aren't as brilliant as we first thought, but they'll still easily win the league. When they played the mighty footballing forces of Wigan, West Brom and Blackpool, and swept all before them, some thought that they'd prove to be the best team ever. They aren't, as disappointing performances at Villa and Man City proved. However, the other teams in the division are far too inconsistent to mount a decent challenge. Arsenal may have learned how to win ugly, but the real test will be whether they can win at places like St Andrews, Molineux, the Reebok. If Manchester United are in touch as we move into February, they have a decent chance, but it's impossible to look past Chelsea.
2. Money eventually talks. Whilst Man City won't win the title this season, the signs are there that, with the right stewardship, they will eventually be serious title challengers. He may have taken the Josef Stalin approach to management, the 'if I put enough players in the ranks, I can't lose' tactic, but Mancini is not the right man. Not only is his name, in the same fashion as Arsene's, far too similar to his club's to be taken seriously, he is far too negative. I could win the games that Mancini has this season, finishing 4th is not good enough.
3. The Championship is a lot duller without the Albion. Usually, the bi-annual tour of the Championship from West Brom adds some excitement to the second tier, but this season, they're not in it, and neither are the Wolves. Sure, it's funny to see Leeds struggle, but without a vested interest, the Championship passes me by.
4. There simply aren't enough good referees. Michael Oliver, Stuart Attwell, Anthony Taylor and Mike Jones are too young and too inexperienced to be refereeing at this level. Some of the decisions have been laughable this season, and unfortunately, we seem to have been on the wrong end of more than most. Martin Atkinson seems to have a personal vendetta against Blues, and should simply never be allowed to referee us again. You can bet your bottom dollar that had two shocking penalty decisions gone against Sir Alex Ferguson, Atkinson would never have darkened Old Trafford's door again.
5. The offside law needs re-writing. Far too many times this season, the offside law has been interpreted to the letter, and as such, the wrong decisions have been made. It's not the application of the law that needs looking at, it's the law itself.
6. Monday Night Football is still just as dour as ever. It didn't take long for the MNF games we know and love to replace the seemingly fantastic games that Sky showed at the start of the year. You don't watch MNF to see Manchester United v Liverpool. You watch it to see Blackburn v Wigan, or Charlton v Middlesbrough. What? Neither of those teams are in the Premier League anymore? Why are Sky even having MNF then?
7. Alex McLeish may not be the most tactically astute manager the Blues will ever have, but he's probably the most magnanimous and genuine. His refusal to criticse referees must be applauded, and the way he spoke about how the Blues players must 'button it' in the face of poor decisions brought a smile to this referee's face.
8. Clarke Carlisle should've spent more time training, and less time reading. Did we really have to be subjected to that tripe on a Monday night? He talked non-stop, about nothing in particular. I know he's supposed to be the cleverest player in England, but he was worse than Andy Gray. And he's shocking.
9. I'd rather watch the Carling Cup than the Champions League. The only matches I've wanted to watch this season have been Inter v Spurs, and Man Utd v Rangers. Simply, nobody cares if Arsenal put 4 past Rag-Arse Rabotnicki, or Pub-Team Belgrade. Contrast that with the stories that have been emanating from the 'much-maligned Carling Cup' (TM). Lee Hughes at Wolves. Brentford. Kevin Phillips desperate for some silverware at last. The most eagerly-anticipated Midlands derby since 2002. You can have your prawn-sandwiched Champions League, while I'll have a pie and a pint at the Carling Cup.
10. Whisper it, but Avram Grant might actually not be that good a manager. Yes, he performed admirably at Pompey, but there was no pressure and their FA Cup campaign was given a huge helping hand from Sepp Blatter and his anti-goal line tecnology crusade, and a linesman's decision that will always haunt me if I never see us win a trophy. West Ham got rid of chipmunk lookalike Zola, and replaced him with Herman Munster's butler. With pressure from the eel-munchers at Upton Park, Grant has started terribly.
11. It's much harder to hate Liverpool with Woy in charge. I hate that I don't hate Woy Hodgson. Why can't I just hate Liverpool like I used to, with that smirking Fat Spanish Waiter in charge? With a bit of luck, the Americans will fail to realise that Woy will turn it round, and is a fantastic manager, and they'll get rid of him and appoint some whooping Yank.
So there we go. It used to be claimed that the only thing that was certain of the Premier League is its uncertainty, but now I feel the only thing that is certain is that Chelsea will win the league. The relegation battle, much though Sky would hate to admit it, is far more intriguing.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
'My Own Blogging Narnia'
Ahh, my blog. How I've missed you, snowed under by university foul-ups, exam foul-ups, life foul-ups in general. But now I'm back in my niche, my home away from home, Blogspot, and everything it has to offer, like an old pair of slippers. I've missed the way you continually crash mid-blog, preventing me from writing The Ultimate Blog, the Blog to end all Blogs- wait a minute, an email!
That's right, last week I received a lovely, yet dubious-looking email from somebody called 'Jemma@Videojug'. Whilst this may sound like a porn star, she was in fact from a website called videojug.com, which was 'looking for talented and new writers'- uh-huh, that's me. Smug much. Thinking this was probably too good to be true, possibly owing to the fact the email went straight to my Spam folder, I went on with some trepidation, whacking 'videojug' into a search engine. It seemed authentic enough. It was the first entry, and looked pretty credible. Unless it was an elaborate hoax from David Sullivan, whom I've previously slagged off on this blog, or a real-life Truman Show trick played on me, it seemed genuine.
The first thing I saw when I logged onto this 'Videojug' was a video entitled 'How to put on a condom'. I wasn't entirely sure what I was getting into, and 'Jemma@Videojug' was starting to sound increasingly like a porn star. The next thing I saw was 'How to be a good kisser- personalised for you'. Now they were just being insulting. Once I stepped back from the horror, and had seen enough of a Scottish woman putting a condom on a banana, I pulled back the wardrobe door and saw into my own blogging Narnia. There were fauns on every corner, waiting to take me back for tea and warning me against the perils of the Blogging White Witch. It was a bit like being told you had a key to Wonka's factory. I didn't know where to start, I wanted to look at the chocolate river of football blogs, while the imp of the perverse inside me wanted to look at more condom-applying blogs, and find a blogging Oompa-Loompa. Poor, dear Augustus Gloop.
Essentially, 'Higgsy's Blogsys' is taking somewhat of a backseat, while I'm off with my new mistress, Videojug. Although there is nothing wrong with Blogspot, in the manner of Ashley cheating on Cheryl, I just need something new, something shiny, something which apparently offers the prospect of meeting other bloggers. Fascinating.
Anyway, if you get the chance, head over to the other side, where the grass is always greener. You may notice a shift in style, and content. This is largely due to the fact that you can only say so many things about being a Blues fan before you start to depress people, and secondly, I feel I need to widen my audience beyond the hardy, loyal few who appreciate my sporting musings. Rest assured though, that I will, sooner or later, be setting up a second blog, purely on sport. And rest assured that this does not mark the death of Higgsy's Blogsys. It is just the beginning.
http://pages.videojug.com/pages/6685-My-view-of-the-last-year-at-school
http://www.videojug.com/user/edhiggs
That's right, last week I received a lovely, yet dubious-looking email from somebody called 'Jemma@Videojug'. Whilst this may sound like a porn star, she was in fact from a website called videojug.com, which was 'looking for talented and new writers'- uh-huh, that's me. Smug much. Thinking this was probably too good to be true, possibly owing to the fact the email went straight to my Spam folder, I went on with some trepidation, whacking 'videojug' into a search engine. It seemed authentic enough. It was the first entry, and looked pretty credible. Unless it was an elaborate hoax from David Sullivan, whom I've previously slagged off on this blog, or a real-life Truman Show trick played on me, it seemed genuine.
The first thing I saw when I logged onto this 'Videojug' was a video entitled 'How to put on a condom'. I wasn't entirely sure what I was getting into, and 'Jemma@Videojug' was starting to sound increasingly like a porn star. The next thing I saw was 'How to be a good kisser- personalised for you'. Now they were just being insulting. Once I stepped back from the horror, and had seen enough of a Scottish woman putting a condom on a banana, I pulled back the wardrobe door and saw into my own blogging Narnia. There were fauns on every corner, waiting to take me back for tea and warning me against the perils of the Blogging White Witch. It was a bit like being told you had a key to Wonka's factory. I didn't know where to start, I wanted to look at the chocolate river of football blogs, while the imp of the perverse inside me wanted to look at more condom-applying blogs, and find a blogging Oompa-Loompa. Poor, dear Augustus Gloop.
Essentially, 'Higgsy's Blogsys' is taking somewhat of a backseat, while I'm off with my new mistress, Videojug. Although there is nothing wrong with Blogspot, in the manner of Ashley cheating on Cheryl, I just need something new, something shiny, something which apparently offers the prospect of meeting other bloggers. Fascinating.
Anyway, if you get the chance, head over to the other side, where the grass is always greener. You may notice a shift in style, and content. This is largely due to the fact that you can only say so many things about being a Blues fan before you start to depress people, and secondly, I feel I need to widen my audience beyond the hardy, loyal few who appreciate my sporting musings. Rest assured though, that I will, sooner or later, be setting up a second blog, purely on sport. And rest assured that this does not mark the death of Higgsy's Blogsys. It is just the beginning.
http://pages.videojug.com/pages/6685-My-view-of-the-last-year-at-school
http://www.videojug.com/user/edhiggs
Monday, August 30, 2010
Romance of non-league...?
In a throwback to times when players weren't scared of playing twice in three days, I visited St George's Lane today, the home of Worcester City FC, for a Bank Holiday clash with Solihull Moors. I was expecting twinkly-eyed blokes manning the terraces in flat caps, 90 minutes of hoofball, and buckets of abuse for the referee. As it was, I got all three. That's not to say I didn't enjoy it of course, it was a good way to spend a late summer's afternoon, and I came away from the ground feeling quite good, despite seeing Worcester lose 1-0. That's where I'm feeling uneasy. At any Blues defeat I've ever witnessed, I've come away feeling devastated, and have begun to accept that such a feeling is part of the matchday experience, just like walking to the ground, or (let's chuck in another cliché), the smell of frying onions. If this were a Nick Hornby novel, and I were a walking cliché, I'd be eulogising about how my eyes have been opened to the wonders of non-league football, and how I will discard my Birmingham season ticket in favour of a Worcester one.
'Away, foul piece of plastic! You have robbed me of joy for the last time!'
As it is, I believe I could never bring myself to do it. I noticed that the average age of the crowd today was somewhat older than I normally see down at St Andrews. I'm guessing that these people, at some point or another, were driven away from the Blues, or The Hawthorns, or Villa Park due to the 'money-culture' of the modern Premier League, and have since found solace and comfort in the grassroots level. I doff my cap to these people. But I could never do it, at least, not in the foreseeable future. This is edhiggs.blogspot.com, not nostradamus.blogspot.com, and who's to say in 60 years time, when the Premier League is played on the moon, or heaven forbid, Dubai, I won't do the same? It's perfectly conceivable.
It's a very romantic idea, of course, people supporting their non-league club and shouting 'Up Yours' to the money-men. But in all honesty, give me the sex appeal of the Premier League any day. The emotional bond of supporting the Blues wouldn't be broken easily, I can tell you that. I fully understand AFC Wimbledon's decision to start a new club, and I respect their fans for that immensely. I don't however, see FC United's point. If they were going to 'up sticks', why not do it when Manchester United boycotted the FA Cup for some ludicrous money-making frisson? And why start a new club? Why not give some fans back to the clubs they stole from, the Rochdales and Burys of this world?
I don't hate Manchester City's fans for enjoying their moment in the sun, as I know I'd be doing exactly the same. I wouldn't leave if a billionaire took over at the Blues- far from it. I'd hope, however, that I'd remember my roots, and not display breathtaking arrogance towards the clubs that, not long ago, I was equal to. Reading a Manchester City forum pre-season, the question was posed 'why would Joe Hart want to go to a nowhere club where he'll never win anything?' This comment, of course, came in the wake of Manchester City's treble-winning seas- oh, wait.
It would take something monumental to ply my fingers away from my season ticket at St Andrews. It would have to be something moral. Marlon King signing, for example. I couldn't throw it away through the rose-tinted spectacles of one day watching non-league, because although St George's Lane might look appealing on a bright sunny day, it's nothing compared to St Andrews, and the emotions I feel at My Club, win, lose or draw.
'Away, foul piece of plastic! You have robbed me of joy for the last time!'
As it is, I believe I could never bring myself to do it. I noticed that the average age of the crowd today was somewhat older than I normally see down at St Andrews. I'm guessing that these people, at some point or another, were driven away from the Blues, or The Hawthorns, or Villa Park due to the 'money-culture' of the modern Premier League, and have since found solace and comfort in the grassroots level. I doff my cap to these people. But I could never do it, at least, not in the foreseeable future. This is edhiggs.blogspot.com, not nostradamus.blogspot.com, and who's to say in 60 years time, when the Premier League is played on the moon, or heaven forbid, Dubai, I won't do the same? It's perfectly conceivable.
It's a very romantic idea, of course, people supporting their non-league club and shouting 'Up Yours' to the money-men. But in all honesty, give me the sex appeal of the Premier League any day. The emotional bond of supporting the Blues wouldn't be broken easily, I can tell you that. I fully understand AFC Wimbledon's decision to start a new club, and I respect their fans for that immensely. I don't however, see FC United's point. If they were going to 'up sticks', why not do it when Manchester United boycotted the FA Cup for some ludicrous money-making frisson? And why start a new club? Why not give some fans back to the clubs they stole from, the Rochdales and Burys of this world?
I don't hate Manchester City's fans for enjoying their moment in the sun, as I know I'd be doing exactly the same. I wouldn't leave if a billionaire took over at the Blues- far from it. I'd hope, however, that I'd remember my roots, and not display breathtaking arrogance towards the clubs that, not long ago, I was equal to. Reading a Manchester City forum pre-season, the question was posed 'why would Joe Hart want to go to a nowhere club where he'll never win anything?' This comment, of course, came in the wake of Manchester City's treble-winning seas- oh, wait.
It would take something monumental to ply my fingers away from my season ticket at St Andrews. It would have to be something moral. Marlon King signing, for example. I couldn't throw it away through the rose-tinted spectacles of one day watching non-league, because although St George's Lane might look appealing on a bright sunny day, it's nothing compared to St Andrews, and the emotions I feel at My Club, win, lose or draw.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
The results are in...
DISCLAIMER: I don't care if you think this next blog is the biggest load of tripe you've ever read- this is therapy!
Tomorrow, of course, is Judgement Day. I'm really not looking forward to the hyperbole, scare-mongering and laughable exaggeration that I'll hear from teachers, clutching my results like a child clutches his sodden blanket, with a look of anger, embarrassment and bewilderment upon my face. I'm a nervous person as it is, and have recently been liable to long periods of swearing under my breath and spontaneously breaking into tears. I'm so desperate to do well that I even thought, whilst watching Blues go 2-0 down to Sunderland, that this is God's way of taking with one hand but giving one another.
'Make him have a bad day today', the Big Man would have said, 'but he'll be happy come Thursday morning'. Then, of course, I realised this was nonsense.
But if the people at UCAS had really had their wits about them, they would have cranked up the tension even further, and coincided results day with the start of the football season. There are a lot of similarities. Blind optimism followed by worry, a nagging doubt that you didn't do enough pre-season training (revision), and for some, a feeling that pre-season (revision) is pointless anyway. Heck, Sky Sports could even have televised it. They could have had Jeff Stelling and friends reading out the results to AS Levels as well as telling us the Ipswich v Burnley score! What a televisual feast that would have been!
'Unbelievable Jeff! He's done absolutely no revision and got 4 As! Unbelievable!'
'There's been a late, late, result for Ed Higgs, which way has it gone?'
Blimey, it sends shivers down my spine just thinking about it. At some point or another, we've all wanted to shoot Jeff Stelling, the bearer of bad news. But, of course, he is only the messenger, a Hartlepool Mercury amongst the Gods of Mars (Paul Merson), Bacchus (Matt le Tissier) and Venus (Charlie Nicholas). I have this theory that Jeff Stelling is becoming obsolete anyway. Even before he's announced a goal at St Andrews, I believe that something will have given me a sign, and I'll already know. There's a line in Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra which sums this up.
Dercetus: Antony is dead.
Caesar: The breaking of so great a thing should make a greater crack. The round world should have shook lions into civil streets and citizens to their dens.
In my view, if the Blues are a goal down, I will know about it, because there will be a changing in the tides, a dramatic shift in the weather that will instantly scream 'ONE-NIL TO BOLTON. KEVIN DAVIES'.
Good luck to everyone tomorrow, whatever results you're collecting. I'll be sat at home, waiting for the Sky Sports breaking news bar to flash across the screen, or Moustache Guy to be standing outside RGS, showing the envelopes getting off the team bus with an oversized pair of headphones. Ahh, imagination eh?
Tomorrow, of course, is Judgement Day. I'm really not looking forward to the hyperbole, scare-mongering and laughable exaggeration that I'll hear from teachers, clutching my results like a child clutches his sodden blanket, with a look of anger, embarrassment and bewilderment upon my face. I'm a nervous person as it is, and have recently been liable to long periods of swearing under my breath and spontaneously breaking into tears. I'm so desperate to do well that I even thought, whilst watching Blues go 2-0 down to Sunderland, that this is God's way of taking with one hand but giving one another.
'Make him have a bad day today', the Big Man would have said, 'but he'll be happy come Thursday morning'. Then, of course, I realised this was nonsense.
But if the people at UCAS had really had their wits about them, they would have cranked up the tension even further, and coincided results day with the start of the football season. There are a lot of similarities. Blind optimism followed by worry, a nagging doubt that you didn't do enough pre-season training (revision), and for some, a feeling that pre-season (revision) is pointless anyway. Heck, Sky Sports could even have televised it. They could have had Jeff Stelling and friends reading out the results to AS Levels as well as telling us the Ipswich v Burnley score! What a televisual feast that would have been!
'Unbelievable Jeff! He's done absolutely no revision and got 4 As! Unbelievable!'
'There's been a late, late, result for Ed Higgs, which way has it gone?'
Blimey, it sends shivers down my spine just thinking about it. At some point or another, we've all wanted to shoot Jeff Stelling, the bearer of bad news. But, of course, he is only the messenger, a Hartlepool Mercury amongst the Gods of Mars (Paul Merson), Bacchus (Matt le Tissier) and Venus (Charlie Nicholas). I have this theory that Jeff Stelling is becoming obsolete anyway. Even before he's announced a goal at St Andrews, I believe that something will have given me a sign, and I'll already know. There's a line in Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra which sums this up.
Dercetus: Antony is dead.
Caesar: The breaking of so great a thing should make a greater crack. The round world should have shook lions into civil streets and citizens to their dens.
In my view, if the Blues are a goal down, I will know about it, because there will be a changing in the tides, a dramatic shift in the weather that will instantly scream 'ONE-NIL TO BOLTON. KEVIN DAVIES'.
Good luck to everyone tomorrow, whatever results you're collecting. I'll be sat at home, waiting for the Sky Sports breaking news bar to flash across the screen, or Moustache Guy to be standing outside RGS, showing the envelopes getting off the team bus with an oversized pair of headphones. Ahh, imagination eh?
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
