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.

'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.

'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

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.

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?

Fantasy Football

'A man should never neglect his blog for business'
Walt Disney (or what he probably would have said...)

I have realised that recently I have neglected my blog, and it's been so long since I wrote a blog that the dust has begun to gather on the webpage. Indeed, it's taken me so long to pull my finger out and write something, that the last article is an optimistic rant about how England will surely thrash Germany and go on to be crowned 'FIFA World Cup Winners 2010'. Ho ho, the naivety of youth. Proof, if ever it was needed, that predictions are futile, although I will point out that before the World Cup, I envisaged a Holland v Spain article, and if you cast your minds back further, I tipped James Corden to make a World Cup record all the way back in November. Just call me Nostradamus...

The real reason for my negligence in blogging is that, like the rest of the footballing fraternity, I've been preparing for pre-season, although my pre-season lasts until September, when school starts, as opposed to August, when the football season kicks off. Also, the way that Manchester City have been going about their business, splashing £16m on Aleksandr Kolarov (isn't that the name of the meerkat?) and £24m on David Silva (who?), if I had blogged, it would have just been an inferno of hate-filled words directed in the general direction of Eastlands. It seems that Roberto Mancini is carrying out a fantasy football-style ploy to bring together 11 of the best players in the country together on August 14th, and see how they all get on individually. Team, schmeam.

Belatedly, I have arrived at the topic of my blog- Fantasy Football. As mentioned earlier, it is utterly pointless to try and predict the outcome of football, which is why I rarely bet or do the pools. The next best thing, for people of my age in particular, is Fantasy Football. The time will soon come when I will be approached to join a league, and create a mish-mash of players from the Premier League who I feel might have a decent season, based on, in my experiences at least, who played well for me on Football Manager.

I don't really like to bother with Fantasy Football, in all honesty. The first reason for this is that I forget about it by October, and when I finally get an e-mail through in May to see where I've finished, it transpires that 80% of my picks have either been injured, arrested, or fled the country, meaning that I pick up a paltry 35 points, or something ludicrous like that. When my players have been injured, it seems that my team gets filled with dodgy third-choice Fulham defenders without my knowing, and that's the main reason for 'Higgsy's Hagglers' finishing 500 points behind 'Morley's Marauders' or the amusingly named 'Barearsealona'.

As a Birmingham City fan, I think my job is made all the more difficult. Each year, I vow that I won't let my bias cloud my judgement. Yet each year I insist on picking Gary McSheffrey over Ryan Giggs, Franck Quedrue over Ashley Cole, or Lee Bowyer over Cesc Fabregas. I just can't turn my back on my blue-tinted spectacles, even for a game. Sure, everyone supports a team, so everyone has this problem. Yet as a Chelsea or Arsenal fan, it's beneficial if you pack your team with players from your club! You don't have to sigh 'well, at least I was loyal' as Cameron Jerome misses his latest sitter, costing your side 10 points. Also, my bitterness towards seemingly every other club besides maybe Fulham, whom I have a soft spot, for will inevitably cost me points. 'I'm not having him, he once played for the Villa'. 'David N'Gog? Hell no, not after what he did last season'. I've still not forgiven Ashley Cole for diving in our first ever Premier League match- that's how bitter I am!

Essentially, I can't really stand Fantasy Football. I hate how newspapers pack their pages with pointless statistics that no-one can really decipher, and I can't stomach my enjoyment/desperation towards supporting the Blues being tainted by the knowledge that a goal for the Blues means a 5 point penalty for my fantasy team due to Newcastle not keeping a clean sheet. I even hate it when the blow of a hattrick for Emanuel Adebayor is softened by the realisation that I'll pick up an extra bonus 10 points.

I might be called a 'grumpy old fan' for this, but the only 'Fantasy Football' I'll engage in will be the dreams I have of lifting the Premier League for the Blues, stood next to a grinning Alexandr Kolarov, as we buy our way to a third league title. Or maybe not.

'Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more'

When William Shakespeare wrote Henry V, and the above line, he surely had England's World Cup failures in mind. No other line in literature can sum up better the weariness, yet eternal optimism of England fans, who will forget the previous defeats by Germany over the last 40 years, and will even forget the poor performances over the last two weeks when 3 o'clock comes round tomorrow. That is the charm of football.

You will probably have gleaned from my blogs that I consider myself a Birmingham City fan first, and an England fan second. It's mainly due to my 'devil-may-care' attitude that has been brought about by so many meaningless England games, or games that you'd always expect to win. When supporting the Blues, this sureness never comes about. However, when you get to the knockout stages of a World Cup, the emotions of supporting England come close, or even surpass the feelings of supporting the Blues. This is what I live for in football- the ultimate high, or the ultimate low. In a way, it's a sort of adrenaline gambling. No half measures. That's why I would never consider putting a bet on Germany tomorrow, to soften the blow. There should be no fall back when supporting England- you get four years to get over their failure, you might as well experience the full, no-holds-barred blow of it.

'The game's afoot'

I haven't been around long enough to experience a defeat by Germany, when it's really mattered. Obviously I remember the last game at Wembley when Germany spoiled the party, but other than that, I don't think I've witnessed a competitive defeat by the Germans. The only England v Germany games I can remember are the 1-0 victory in Euro 2000, and the 5-1 victory in Munich. Therefore, on that logic, I should be feeling so much more confident than I am. But, as Henry V said, 'my blood is fet from fathers of war-proof'. My father remembers the defeats in Italia 90, or Euro 96, and so a fear of the Germans is bred. I was thinking the other day, that even if Ghana had won every game 5-0, we'd still rather play them than the Germans, which is frankly ridiculous. Perhaps if England win tomorrow, the ghosts of Turin and Wembley can be put to rest. Stuart Pearce must certainly be having flashbacks to 20 years ago, when he missed a penalty in the Turin shootout- now, in the dugout, he must use all his 'psycho-ness' to inspire the 11 Lions to victory.

'On, on, you noblest English!'

Writing this blog, I've even convinced myself we're going to win. I'm so excited for tomorrow's game, nothing can bring me down. And for anybody who feels Shakespeare may be turning in his grave at my use of one of his most famous speeches, my theory is this: he was a Warwickshire lad, was William, and so, in my mind, almost certainly would have been a Blues fan, had he not pre-dated the club by over 250 years. Therefore, he'd have been all too happy to have lent the above speech to me, right?

'The Germans are like the Daleks'

So, after the first weekend of World Cup action, we've realised one thing: we've underestimated Germany, and will now pay for it. They have been the only team to get anywhere near top gear, and the fact that South Korea have looked the second best team so far shows just how negative many of the sides have been.

I was all set for a thrilling Argentina display after their early goal against Nigeria, yet nothing came of it. The same can be said about England, unfortunately, who should still qualify with ease after seeing what Algeria and Slovenia have had to offer, in the worst match of the tournament so far. Watching England reminded me of so many experiences at St Andrews, playing a side that you feel you should beat 3 or 4 nil, until everyone becomes nervous and starts not wanting the ball. The crowd get on the players' backs, and the whole affair becomes vile and scrappy. However, the biggest danger for England against Algeria will be how many injuries they pick up- Algeria seem to have picked up the tag of 'bruisers' from Uruguay, and carried it forward with relish.

On to the Germans. How can a side that looks so ordinary on paper be so good in the World Cup? The Germans are like the daleks, it seems to me. Every time, they appear vulnerable and frail, yet they seem to grow into an unstoppable force every time, before our very eyes, and there's nothing we can do about it. Every single one of their strikers seemed capable of scoring, in stark contrast to ours, and 'Cacau', the scorer of their 4th goal, sounds dangerously similar to 'Kaka', a fact worrying in itself.

The tone of this blog could have been very different tonight, if circumstances had gone differently. I could be jumping for joy at the fact that Birmingham had signed Cacau, and it appears, if you believe what you read, that we were a signature away from doing so. As it is, it seems we've signed the Serbian version of Ian Ormondroyd. He's not even the Serbian version of Peter Crouch. I don't want to overreact, considering he received no service, but it is slightly dispiriting to see your £6m striker fire an apparent sitter in the opposite direction of the goal.

At half time in the South Africa v Mexico game, a thought crossed my mind: what if every game were to finish 0-0? As an eternal pessimist, I have this thought at the beginning of every football season or tournament. It would most certainly make it the dullest World Cup ever, but it seems that we will have the loudest and most irritating World Cup ever. I hate those vuvuzelas. They've taken away what I love most about football. There'll be no sounds of 'You're sh*t, and you know you are' from the English. No chants of 'Aussie Aussie Aussie' from the, erm, Aussies. No bizarre chants from the Germans where the words are either non-existent or inaudible. Instead, we'll be subjected to a plastic horn so pathetic that if it appeared in a goodie bag at the end of a 5th birthday party, you'd throw it away along with the heavily E-numbered cake.

After waking up feeling as sick as the proverbial parrot about England, I already feel more confident. Lord knows how confident the Germans will be feeling. But, if history has taught as anything, it's that conquering the world isn't just about the first victory.

A Guide to Watching the World Cup

I don't know if you've noticed, but there's an awful lot of football on the TV at the moment. How on earth do you choose which games to watch, acknowledging that it's impossible to watch every single one of the 64 games over the next 30 days? Hopefully, this cut-out-and-keep guide will help you to decide.

Of course, you could pick it simply by the television channel, or if you can't find the remote, you may have to stick with the one channel. On the one hand, we have the highly-professional and smooth BBC, with its many different pundits, presented by the steady, yet bland hand of Gary Lineker. The studio of the BBC is very impressive, with a stunning backdrop overlooking Table Mountain. On the downside, some of the punditry leaves a lot to be desired. Today's line-up was like a bad joke, with Adebayor, Lawro and Hansen: a Scotsman, an Irishman and a Togolese are in a studio. Alan Hansen showed himself up to be a dour xenophobic Scotsman with his highly patronising comment towards Adebayor in 'Brit-on-holiday' speech: 'YOU LIKE RIBERY, YEAH?'

There is, of course, the dark side. ITV. To be fair to ITV, they have at least splashed the cash on a shiny new studio, in contrast to four years ago when they appeared to be broadcasting from the remains of Hitler's bunker. Adrian Chiles is fulfilling the role of 'fan', accompanied by another Irishman (Andy Townsend) and Gareth Southgate, a man who seems to pride himself on stating the obvious.

In the respective gantries, BBC has the edge. The cynical Mark Lawrenson aside, BBC seem to have come up trumps with their co-commentators. Even though it takes a bit of getting used to, Mick McCarthy's Yorkshire hum is a refreshing change, and he does, unlike Lawro, know what he's talking about. ITV, in contrast, is a nightmare. Peter Drury yesterday was on the verge of exploding, and he was that biased towards South Africa, I half-expected him to pull out a vuvuzela. Clive 'Mr Man Utd' Tyldesly is no better, and has been dining out on his infamous commentary clip in 1999's European Cup Final since that night in Barcelona.

You could of course, pick a side and just watch their games. If you want to be a bit different, pick a team based on a random fact you once heard. For example, West Brom fans might be interested to hear that Lars Lagerback, the Nigeria manager, once claimed his favourite player was Kenny Hibbitt, who played for the Wolves. Or you may want to support Nigeria simply because they have a manager called Lagerback, who sounds like a creation from Harry Potter. I will be supporting Serbia, simply because Nikola Zigic, the Serbian centre-forward, is the only Birmingham player at the tournament. Also, there is no confusingly South American sounding 'Montenegro' at the end, which makes things a lot easier.

Work or school may get in the way. I've planned my free periods meticulously, and am delighted to see that I'll be able to watch Greece v Nigeria next week, both of whom looked dire in their first games. Not. All I'm hoping is that there won't be five minutes of injury time at the end of the 12:30 games, or else I could be running into afternoon lessons looking very sweaty, having just seen Nikola Zigic bury a 30 yard volley into the top corner with the last kick of the match.

Basically, unless you don't care about football (or have just been made redundant or sacked and can watch every game) these are very difficult decisions to make. Sacrifices will be made. Relationships may die. But when it comes down to it, you have to decide which is more important: getting to class on time, or watching David Suazo hammer in a penalty against Chile for Honduras.

Nothing like a good freak show

If variety, as the saying goes, is the spice of life, then surely Britain's Got Talent should be on prescription. A self-proclaimed 'Variety Contest', the juggernaut is on every night this week, gearing itself up for the Grand Final on Saturday night. What we love about the show, what marks it out from every other talent show on TV, is the variety. Why, there's singers, dancers, a few more singers, a dance group...

Don't get me wrong, I find the show horribly entertaining. There's nothing I like more than a good freak show to warm the cockles and make me feel hugely satisfied with my life. I love hearing how the life of a young girl will be 'over' if she doesn't get through. I love seeing the obligatory, patronising standing ovation after an American singer such as Beyoncé has appeared on the show at the beck and call of Simon Cowell. But why, if this show promotes its variety so much, is there so little deviation from the singers and dancers? Admittedly the dancing dog broke the monotony last night, but where are the acts that are usually everywhere in variety contests? Oh stand-up comedians from Bolton, step forth! Violin players from Fulham, assemble! There hasn't even been some kid with too much gel in his hair doing keepy-uppies, with little knowledge that this will never make him a professional footballer! If I see one more cutsie dance group full of teenage girls, I may just scream.

This is why I found myself getting so annoyed at the way the judges treated Kev Orkian, who oozed confidence with his Armenian piano player. This affable Londoner embodied what the show should be about, variety, humour and parody. Yet the judges slaughtered him, because they 'didn't get it'. You imagine that had he come out and sang in a mediocre fashion, in a similar way to doorman Neil, the judges would have been waxing lyrical. However, because Kev had the balls to try something different, to veer away from the usual staple diet of singers and dancers, he was consigned to the scrap heap. Because it's difficult to make money out of piano players in comparison to how Mr Cowell can rush out an album of Westlife covers from boyband 'Connected', Orkian was roundly criticised.

I can't stand dance acts. Even the best ones, like last year's winners Diversity, with their admittedly excellent choreography, bore me. I can't imagine how tedious their show must be, an hour of strange movements, like stick insects on speed. If ever I see someone at a party doing frankly ridiculous body-popping, I die a little inside. That's why I prefer ballroom dancing on shows such as Strictly Come Dancing, in my view a far more dignified show, instead of hearing the bunch of gibbons in the ITV audience screaming out the name of their favourite act.

So basically, Britain's Got Talent is a sham. For most of the time, it has as much variety as a Quality Street box at New Year, when only the horrible purple ones are left. This is why, for variety's sake, I will be voting for Chandi the dog on Saturday night. For a start, you won't hear ludicrous things such as 'I'll die if I don't win'...

Dreaming of a White Summer

Although the name of this blog could be interpreted as a potential title for Nick Griffin's autobiography, it is actually the hope that is rising up inside me with each passing day, the hope that England can finally reclaim the World Cup this summer. It seems I'm one of the few people in the country to actually believe, not simply hope, that we can do it. It might simply be a childish dream. I might just be kidding myself that we can win it, and this belief may just be borne out of desire, rather than any substance. But I hate going into any sporting occasion thinking my team won't win it, so I'm believing. I couldn't think of 25 points, like the NSDAP, or even 10, like David Gold and David Sullivan, so here are 4 points on why we can finally end 44 years of hurt.

We don't expect to.
In 2006, there was a nationwide feeling of jubilance before we'd even started. The FA had booked Trafalgar Square in expectation for the glorious homecoming, and we'd beaten the mighty footballing force of Jamaica 6-0. Then we realised that there were actually lots of teams far more organised than us, and it all collapsed around us. This time, nobody thinks we stand much of a chance. We've got the second oldest squad, and we're on the way down. There is an eery calm descending over England, rather than an overwhelming expectation that we usually experience before a World Cup. Perhaps we've finally learned our lesson, and had our fingers burned once too often. There's a feeling that for once, if we only keep our heads and not drive around with flags sticking out of our cars like some ugly rally, then some good might come of it. We've got to try something different, anyhow.

It'll be Winter
For once, it'll be hotter here than at the World Cup, so we can be spared the excrutiating excuses that we had in the Sahara Desert (sorry, Germany) about how it was too hot, and we 'wilted'. This time, it's the Brazilians turn to moan about how its too cold. Admittedly, I don't like the idea of the World Cup in Winter myself. It sounds like we won't be able to hear ourselves think, everyone's apparently not going to come back alive, and the cold's going to ruin everything. But again, the fact that there's something different about this World Cup surely can only work in our advantage? Perhaps we should give up playing in the World Cups that get played in normal places in normal climates, and only play the slightly quirky ones that we think might give us a hand. It's the 'do the opposite to what you'd expect' philosophy, as I like to call it.

The others aren't that impressive
When the other countries aren't bribing referees (sorry, Lord Triesman's words), they're not actually that impressive. The Dutch will play well in the group stages and bottle it, the Brazilians won't cope with the weather, and one of the Spanish backroom staff will probably commit an act of racism that causes them to fall apart. Which leaves the Germans, who I will now proceed to underestimate, and describe as 'too ordinary', because that always works, right?

We're crap
We were very good in 2006. We were good in 2002. Now we've got Leighton Baines as a reserve left-back, and most of our players are over-the-hill, no-one can ever describe us as anything more than ordinary. But then how many World Cup winning sides have been ordinary? Who tipped the Italians last time? Who tipped Greece in 2004? Who ever tips the Germans? So many excellent sides have been poor in World Cups, and so many seemingly poor sides have been excellent.

I'll be watching most of the World Cup in Germany or Poland, so I'll most likely never see any of the goals, or understand anything that's going on. I'll probably end up coming back from holiday thinking that England have won it. If I come back grinning like a fool with a flag of St George draped across my chest, while the rest of the country is in mourning, please don't awake me from my joyful slumber.

Bradfordians Will Never Be Forgotten

Tuesday was the 25th anniversary of one of the worst days in football. For some, it has been swept under the carpet, overshadowed by perhaps more infamous disasters such as Hillsborough and Heysel. But for others, the pain of Saturday 11th May 1985 will never go away. It was the day when the culture of football began to change, and arguably, society.

At St Andrews, Birmingham were playing Leeds, and should have been celebrating promotion back to the First Division. However, a riot broke out, and a wall collapsed killing a fourteen year old boy. Even Leeds manager Eddie Gray was attacked on the pitch. This came only two months after Millwall fans tore up Luton's Kenilworth Road, revelling in their reputation, using seats as shields to fight police.

The riot at Birmingham was terrible enough for what was already a dreadful day, but it was nothing compared to what was happening at Bradford's Valley Parade. Halfway through a match (in which Bradford were also incidentally celebrating promotion) , a fire broke out, killing 56 people. The stand was engulfed in flames and black smoke, and the footage, captured by television cameras, is shocking. The disaster was followed by a comprehensive enquiry, in which Sir Oliver Popplewell banned the planned building of a wooden stand, and put the first steps in place for safe stadia as we now know it.

It is surprising that before Tuesday, I knew little of this shocking day in comparison to the events at Hillsborough, and I'm sure many young people like myself will feel the same. 1985 has to go down as the worst year in football. The riot at Birmingham was overshadowed by events at Valley Parade, and only weeks later, the infamous Heysel disaster occurred, inspiring yet more shocking scenes.

It should be noted that the Bradford disaster is unique from the other three, in the fact that it was not caused by hooligans. It makes me sick to hear journalists and other such people refer to these people as 'fans', as these people could not be further from the fans that are the lifeblood of every football club, and go to matches with the sole intention of supporting their club, and indulging in the love of their life. It also makes me sick to see films such as Green Street, which clearly glorify football violence. I refuse to even touch the book on the Birmingham City Zulus, as I believe it is wrong on principle to even stock these books, and how they have made it to press is beyond me. I feel saddened whenever I hear people comparing firms, and boasting about how they 'ran the police up the street'. It's pathetic. The only time I've ever witnessed anything close to a riot between two sets of football hooligans was at Stoke City, where I was genuinely scared and appalled, even though I was a safe distance away.

Of course, football is not the only sport marred by violence, as much as fans of other sports would like us to believe. Only a few weeks ago, two Worcester Warriors fans had to be separated after fighting broke out when the club's relegation was confirmed. It was later discovered that these grown men were two of the players' fathers.

Therefore I just hope that when these morons watch hooligan films, they remember the disasters of years gone by, and the pain and suffering it has caused to so many, even those not directly affected. Football doesn't need these idiots: it's coping fine without them.

As it Stands- We're all Petrified

The time has come, ladies and gentlemen, for Sky Sports to wheel out their graphic in the right hand corner of the screen that will strike fear and hope in equal measures into the hearts of football fans everywhere. It is as much a part of the end-of-season ritual as fancy dress and montages of kids in facepaint crying their eyes out. Of course, it's the 'As it Stands' graphic, showing exactly where your team are, should the season finish right now, with no warning. Imagine that...

As Adrian Chiles once wrote in his brilliant book We don't know what we're doing, 'it's the hope that kills you'. In that case, Sky Sports has a lot to answer for. Is there anything that strikes false hope in you more than seeing your side out of the bottom three/in the promotion places with the vast majority of the game still to play? I first spotted the 'As it Stands' graphic this season last week, when watching Plymouth v Newcastle. It seems a bit strange to dust off the graphic in the middle of April. It's a little bit like defrosting Bruce Forsythe in June, ready for Strictly Come Dancing- it all seems a little bit pointless, when so much could still happen. Nevertheless, I felt the need to shout out 'AS IT STANDS!' at the top of my voice, possibly a mild form of Tourettes.

'As it Stands' season does produce some great moments, to give the little graphic his credit. He plays almost as big a role as Richard Keys does at Sky Sports around this time of the season, constantly jinking his way in and out of fear and hope. Crystal Palace and West Bromwich Albion saw only a minor role for the diminutive diagram, with only two goals, thus only two opportunities to show what he can do. But he'll be back on Sunday for sure, keen to show what an impact he can have on a season.

The game itself was fantastic. Any fears over West Bromwich Albion not trying were quickly put aside when Crystal Palace made rods for their own backs by riling the Albion players so much that they thought 'like Hell are you beating us'. It had the feeling of a play-off game about it, which in some senses, it was, with a Palace win guaranteeing survival. It ended 1-1, so AS IT STANDS, Palace need to avoid defeat on Sunday to stay up. The cameras caught a glimpse of a Palace fan sobbing his heart out at the finish (like you expected anything else from the masters of overstatement Sky Sports). My first thought was that he'd misunderstood the situation, thinking that Palace had already gone down. Surely this is where Sky Sports could do with an overhead projector to display 'As it Stands' on the pitch? Of course, it was the tension that caused the poor lad to cry his eyes out. The 'hope' that was killing him. We've all been there, supporters of Chelsea or Cheltenham, we all know the feeling. Sitting through double History going through the various permutations, using the Russian noblemen as Birmingham and the slavophiles as Reading, wondering whether the serfs (Crystal Palace) will roll over for the Tsarist ministers (Sheffield United). The teacher wasn't best pleased when I referred to Tsar Kevin Blackwell in my essay, but only football fans would understand.

'As it Stands' season causes so many bonds, breaks so many hearts. My sister stopped going to the football when in her previous two visits, Birmingham were relegated and missed out on promotion. Such is the power of the magical little graphic. If in doubt though, remember the words of The Shawshank Redemption:

Fear can hold you prisoner. Hope can set you free.

Midlands Meltdown

Whatever happens this Sunday, when Aston Villa and Birmingham meet, there will be four West Midlands teams in the Premier League next season, which will be music to the ears of Birmingham City fans, who are still haunted by the 5-1 humiliation in 2008 which all but relegated the Blues for the second time in three years. Not that this is anything new, you understand. It is normally about this time of year when Midlanders are fretting over West Brom's and Birmingham's survival chances, and bemoaning Wolves' inability to win promotion. Although many Baggies and Wolves fans would prefer to have three rather than four clubs in the top flight next season, I'm immensely excited and proud to be a supporter of a Midlands side at the moment.

For too long, the national media has been far too frantic over London and Northern clubs, and to a degree, quite rightly. Midlands sides have been poor for the last 25 years, with the last time the 'West Midlands Big 4' met up in the top division coming in 1984. However, at times, Midlands sides have understandably become exasperated with pundits. For example, Mark Lawrenson has been adamant that Birmingham have played 4-5-1 throughout the season, which is totally wrong. Wolves fans have been forever sending letters to the BBC questioning the lack of highlights on Match of the Day regarding their team. Admittedly, Hagley-based Adrian Chiles has redressed the balance to an extent, but even with his imminent departure, West Midlands teams look like they will finally be able to stand on their own two feet.

Aston Villa have, despite murmurings of discontent from B6, had a good season, reaching Wembley twice and sustaining their Champions League challenge far longer than before. It looks like they will fall short thanks to the superior spending power of Tottenham and Manchester City, but this season has to represent an improvement on the days of 'Deadly' Doug Ellis and David 'Dreary' O'Leary, when Villa finished in lower mid-table. O'Neill, thanks to his enthusiasm and passion, has attracted many admirers, and Villa's close-season will likely resemble plate-spinning: on the one hand attempting to improve the squad to enrich their Champions League aspirations; on the other keeping hold of O'Neill and the player of the season James Milner.

Over in B9, Birmingham City must be one of the success stories of the Premier League campaign. I, along with other Blues fans, would not have been devastated had McLeish jumped ship after gaining promotion, such was the lack of quality football in the Championship. However, he has proved us all wrong, and his qualities as a man have impressed many, namely his reluctance to criticise referees, and his refusal to lie down, a trait mirrored by his side. For a side only just promoted on the last day, the achievement of not losing at home to the top six is very impressive, and when comparing the achievement of Blues to the relative anonymity of Sheffield United, whom Blues pipped to promotion, you can see the fine lines between success and failure. The only serious black mark which will not go away easily is the surrender to Portsmouth in the FA Cup, when a Wembley appearance was beckoning. The falling away in the second half of the season has emphasised the frailty of the squad, and McLeish must beware second season syndrome.

I doubt many people envisaged Wolves being safe so early. Their surrender of the lead to Birmingham was worrying, and many Wolves fans filled the phone-ins with calls for McCarthy to be sacked. His record in the Premier League before this season was questionable, if not laughable, however his never-say-die attitude which has transmitted towards his players has earned him many supporters, and it looks like McCarthy will finally get a crack at establishing himself as a Premier League manager. All this, from an outsider's point of view, seems to be down to the two players who I would place in any midtable team in the league: Kevin Doyle, and Karl Henry. The impact of Doyle has been well documented, but tenacity is the name of the game for staying in the Premier League, and Henry has this in abundance. He was one of the view players not to meekly surrender at St Andrews this season, and Wolves fans will be indebted to this pair. So it looks like Mick McCarthy, despite his odd voice and similarity to the Professional Yorkshiremen sketch from Monty Python ('ball? You had to kick a rock when I were a lad') will be locking horns with Mcleish and O'Neill again next season.

Speaking of strange voices, West Brom have coped extremely well with the departure of Tony Mowbray, who possessed the most annoying voice in football. Ever. A few Albion fans raised eyebrows when Roberto di Matteo was appointing, but his footballing style (one of the few things the suave Italian must have in common with the North East's Mowbray) has transferred well to the players, and have gained promotion at a canter. But will things be different this time? For so long, Albion have gone straight back down without a fight, and Jeremy Peace, the Albion chairman, surely has a duty to the fans to put his hand in his pocket. However, he has already said that di Matteo will have to be shrewd, so it looks as if Albion may be set for yet another immediate return to the Championship.

Next season should be a cracking year for sides in the West Midlands. We'll have the friendly derby (Albion v Blues), the historical derby (Albion v Villa) and of course the hatred derbies (Blues v Villa/Albion v Wolves) along with many others. For Blues, Albion and Wolves at least, the team that picks up the most points in these matches could be the side to stay up, with the least successful side going down.

Armageddon Outta Here

I used to quite like West Ham. There's always been a razzmatazz about them, something which makes them quite cool to support, not like if you support Grimsby, or Preston, or even, let's face it, Birmingham City. All the cool celebrities support them, people like Ray Winstone, Russell Brand, all the impish Cockerney fashionable types, yet they still retain an aura of hard-up Londoners battling against the odds. I could even look past the fact that they play in claret and blue to have a soft spot for them. And of course, in case you didn't know, they won us the World Cup. However, ever since a couple of months ago, all this admiration for them has disappeared. Like the rest of the country, it seems, I've developed an intense dislike for the new West Ham owners, pornography entrepreneurs David Sullivan and David Gold. The difference between Birmingham City fans and the rest of the country is that we've had good practice at hating them.

In 1993, Gold and Sullivan rocked up at Birmingham City, with the club in dire financial trouble, and the team going nowhere. They introduced the 'kids for a quid' scheme to get the fans back to St Andrews, they made the club absolutely debt-free, and had an admirable record with keeping faith with managers. How do I know all this, and how can I trot this information off without even looking it up? Because they reminded Birmingham fans of this every single day, and threw this information at us after the relationship between the fans and the board soured. To my mind, this happened in 2005. Gold, always the 'good cop' in the relationship, told us that 'Birmingham fans would sit back and go 'wow'' at the players on show, namely Jesper Gronkjaer, Emile Heskey and Muzzy Izzet, amongst others. We didn't. The club went backwards, and managing director of the club Karren Brady went from having a waiting-list for season tickets to struggling to fill the ground. In any other profession, Brady would've surely been sacked. In 2007, Sullivan declared he wanted to sell his stake, citing that Blues fans had totally unrealistic expectations of them, and in 2009, finally handed over the keys to Carson Yeung.

Now that the background has been described, you can imagine the knowing looks exchanged between Birmingham fans when Gold and Sullivan rolled into Upton Park, spouting the same promises to unsuspecting Hammers fans. Ironically, West Ham's first victory under the new owners was against Birmingham, but now that the Hammers are still in danger of relegation, the prone to hyperbole Sullivan has claimed that it will be 'Armageddon' if the team went down to the Championship. I'm not entirely sure what he means by 'Armageddon'. Presumably, a comet will hit Upton Park, the players will spontaneously combust, East London will become a wasteland occupied by no-one, and West Ham will have to play Norwich on a Tuesday night. Thankfully, the national media has finally cottoned on to their ways, and has realised it wasn't just a bunch of 'whingeing Brummies' moaning about the poor management of the club, but instead frustration caused by years of false promises and not delivering.

All this has been capped off by their treatment of Gianfranco Zola, a man so small and delicate you just want to wrap him in a blanket and tell him everything will be OK. Backstabbing and using the media as a tool to get one over on someone is not a new device by Sullivan in particular, but his open letter after the 3-1 defeat to Wolves totally undermined Zola, and it's a credit to the Italian that he hasn't reacted worse than he did.

I have nothing against the West Ham fans, and I like the sound of 'I'm forever blowing bubbles' and Frank McAvennie as much as the next man. However, for me, I'd love to see a triumph of Hull over West Ham, of East Yorkshire grit against East London chic when it comes to the relegation battle. Sullivan and Gold, if they can drag themselves away from their open letters to the fans and their countless media appearances, will have to deal with the rubble of 'Armageddon' without the help and sympathy of many football fans. The fans deserve better.

Why 5th officials aren't such a new idea...

In the very limited amount of Europa League football I've seen this season, I still can't work out what the point of the two extra officials is. They stand behind each goal-line, looking thoroughly bored, and having absolutely no impact on the game whatsoever. It occurred to me, whilst watching Liverpool v Lille last night, that I'd seen the use of two extra officials before. This is how the conversation would've gone last night, between Liverpool goalkeeper José Reina and the official stood behind the goal:

Official: Alright 'keeper, what's the score mate?
Reina: 2-0 to us.
Official: Ahh right, who are you?
Reina: The Reds are Liverpool, the Whites are Lille.
Official: Oh right. You having a good season?
Reina: Yeah not ba- CLEAR IT JAMIE! Sorry about that. Yeah, we're doing OK thanks, couple of lads working today though, we're not quite full strength.
Official: I'll let you get on. C'mon Triggs!

Of course! It's the typical man-behind-the-goal on a Sunday morning! 5th and 6th officials have been working on parks up and down the country for years, and UEFA have only just realised it! Perhaps the official should have a dog to walk behind the goal and a flat cap, then the image would be complete. It might keep the poor guys warm if nothing else. Being a referee, it's hard enough to persuade two people to run the line on a nice day in April, let alone getting two more people to stand behind the goal for Spartak Moscow v Dinamo Kiev in mid-February.

So on that basis, I hope that UEFA see sense, and knock this whole idea on the head, before the officials behind the goal get blamed for talking to the 'keeper when he should have been clearing a backpass...

How I Learned to Stop Being Jealous and Love Beckham

It's perhaps fitting that I should hear the news that David Beckham is seriously injured and unlikely to ever play again when I was in a state of grogginess looking at my worst after little sleep on a Sunday night, given how immaculate Beckham always looks. Beckham has always, and will always, be mine and many other boys of my age's idol, because of the way we've grown up through our childhood and into our teenage years in the same way that Beckham has grown through his footballing career. I don't remember France '98. But I do remember the furore that surrounded Beckham, and although it didn't quite hit home at the time, I now realise just how pivotal that sending-off was for football, for Beckham, and for me.

It didn't hit home that I'll most likely never see Beckham until about 11 o'clock, when I felt like running to Finland to give Becks a giant hug. Beckham has been my idol since I started watching football, and has only ever been briefly replaced by Darren Carter, Geoff Horsfield and Ashley Giles. But Beckham has always found a way back into my heart, like a homing pigeon, in a similar way to how he always found his niche in the England team, slotting into the right-midfield position regular as clockwork. When other players have come and gone, when the Michael Ricketts and Seth Johnsons of this world have had their one cap and left through the back door, Becks has been there, immovable, indestructible, incredible. But I should have seen it coming. Being loved by me is a bit like being interviewed by Martin Bashir, whose 'victims' include Michael Barrymore and Princess Diana. My 'victims' number Oasis (split up), Russell Brand (Sachs-gate) and Darren Carter (sold to West Brom). John Bishop and Craig Gardner, watch out...

It's not just the way Beckham played that drew me in, although I could sit and watch his free- kicks all day long. I remember spending hours in the garden, trying fruitlessly to 'Bend it like Beckham'. I identified with Becks because of his lack of pace, which he made up for in vision, and blinding ability to spot a pass. His elegance when he stepped up to strike a free-kick... mesmerising. But it's not just his footballing skills, which says a lot about how Beckham has changed football. It's the way he conducted himself on and off the field. He was an ambassador, and a role model. The only time after '98 in which Beckham appeared in the wrong was the unproven affair with Rebecca Loos. It's impossible, in hindsight, to think Loos was telling the truth when you consider how much of a family man Becks is. There are no examples of fracas outside nightclubs, or missing drugs tests. The truth is, Beckham was 'golden', in every sense of the word.

There will be those that criticise Becks for his endless sponsorship deals. But let's put all our ludicrous 'holier than thou' attitudes to one side for a moment, and realise that every single one of us would do the same, given the opportunity. The fact is, nobody wants to play 'Lee Bowyer Soccer' on the Playstation, or wear 'Eau de Steve Mclaren'. There will also be those that claim he's just a showpony, with his endless changing hairstyles and designer suits. Just realise this. Beckham was cool. I wanted to copy him. Middle aged men wanted to copy him. Everyone wanted to copy him. He looked like a superstar, but he still retained the aura of a normal lad from Leytonstone, which very few superstars can do. I can only think of Robbie Williams in this category of superstar fame mixed with down-to-earth, all-round nice-guy attitude.

Reaching the end of this blog, I feel I've come full circle. I have felt quite emotional all day, none more so than whilst writing this blog. It's fitting, really, considering the emotion raised when one sees Beckham's finest moments replayed. Some of the things he did really are hairs on the back of the neck stuff. So 'thanks' Becks. 'Thanks' for that free-kick against Greece. 'Thanks' for that penalty against Argentina. And 'thanks' for living your journey through football with me, and with so many other lads my age.

TV Shows Don't Get Tougher Than This

I love cookery programmes. I'm not sure what it is about them that appeals to me, considering I'm not a particularly keen cook, although I do know my way around a kitchen. Perhaps it's the sort of voyeuristic quality about them, the idea that even though I have no intention of 'realising the dream' and eating the food shown on the small screen, there's still a fascination, a 'look but don't touch' peculiarity that appeals to me. Or maybe it's the personalities on the shows. Gordon Bleeping Ramsay, Jamie Oliver, Nigella, and of course Dave Lamb from the hilarious Come Dine With Me. Yet, after witnessing the shocking programme Michael Winner's Dining Stars on Friday night, I'm willing to 'hang up my eyes' when it comes to watching cookery programmes.

The show dressed itself up as Come Dine With Me with Michael Winner, or at least that's how it appeared to me. My first issue is with the title. Wouldn't Michael Winner Comes To Dinner have been a much better option? Michael Winner Throws Your Dinner In The Binner? What the hell is a dining star anyway? Anyway, Winner, 74, visits two houses in an hour-long show, has dinner with the families, and then reveals whether they've won one of his much sought-after 'dining stars'. Winner endeared himself to the viewing public when he declared that there were no good cooks 'Oop North', a sweeping statement if ever I heard one. Winner, the colour of a ripe satsuma, first insisted on showing us round his huge mansion, and introducing us to his assistant, a middle-aged woman called Dinah. Winner first visited Longridge, where he planned on dining at Justine's, a very pleasant woman with two disabled children. He could have quite easily had a nice meal, not been any trouble, given the woman her star, and buggered off down South, where the air is so much cleaner. But no, Winner had to have his fun. He acted like a spoiled 6 year old all evening, and then towards the end of the dinner, bizarrely went into the toilet to record his thoughts on a dictaphone, while Justine and her family looked bemused.

Next, Winner went to Cheshire to visit Dean and his family, who cooked up, what looked to me, like an extremely competent Jamaican meal. Again, have the meal, and give the man a star Winner. But no. Winner went home, without a word, and called the two families all the way down to London. Ah, how nice, he's going to give them both a star, and let them have their day out in London, all expenses paid. Again, wrong. Dean was dragged down South, into a theatre with just himself and Winner, to receive no stars, and Justine received one, due to how Winner was so emotionally moved by her two disabled children, which rendered the whole eating experience utterly pointless.

Oh how this contrasts with Masterchef! Rock 'N' Roll of the cookery shows! John Torode, housewives' favourite, with his hair so flexible it changes length with each shot, and Greg Wallace, fat glutton with not one hair. How Wallace must pine for just one of Torode's locks! Anyway, onto the cooking. We all know the format. 'The Invention Task'; followed by a humilation by some chauvinistic pig in the pro-kitchen; and then the contestants are required to serve something up for Torode and Wallace while they stare on greedily, rubbing their hands with glee and making eye movements at each other. And most importantly of all, no Michael Winner. There is, of course, the danger of overkill. With two and a half hours of Masterchef a week, I am starting to talk like Torode, calling 'pasta' 'paaaarrrrssssstttaaaaaaa' and not using complex sentence structures, simply shouting 'sweet, sticky, sour, yum'. I've also taken to hovering over my Mum's food like a gannet in the style of Wallace, raising my eyebrows every so often and wondering whether there's 'too much going on on that plate'.

So don't stop the cookery shows! For me, they're at least on a par with Bolton v Wigan on Sky Sports, possibly even surpassing it! Just please, TV Licensing, promise me one thing. Keep Michael Winner and his Dining Stars away from my television, at all costs.

FA turn down the music

I was gutted this week to read that the FA have said that there will be 'no official England World Cup song' this summer, as it's about football, not about songs. I for one am glad the FA cleared that last bit up, because I always thought the World Cup was about some washed-up indie band or patriotic comedian singing, and had absolutely nothing to do with football. Whether the songs are good (Baddiel & Skinner take a bow), bad (Embrace) or downright forgettable (Rider feat. Terry Venables anyone?), one thing is for sure- yet another year has gone past without Wayne Rooney rapping in homage to John Barnes.

I've always liked the curiosity that surrounds the World Cup song. Admittedly, the last one (World at your Feet) was dire and downbeat, but we have had some crackers in the past. I've been championing the Kaiser Chiefs for years to step up to the plate and record an anthemic terrace chant-style song, and I believe, as avid supporters of Leeds United, that they'd relish the chance. There's nothing better than switching on Top of the Pops 2 a week before the big kick-off and seeing David Baddiel and Frank Skinner jumping up and down singing 'Three Lions'. The highlight for me is seeing Baddiel holding his own as a half-decent singer, while Skinner jumps up and down like a maniac singing, it has to be said, appallingly. And who can forget 'World in Motion'? After 'Three Lions', in my view, the best World Cup song, simply for John Barnes' rap in the middle, which totally disproves the stereotype that all Jamaicans have rhythm.

The key to these songs is the way they transfer to the terraces. Even the Germans now sing 'Football's Coming Home', which makes football seem like a dreadful biggamist, but hats off to Baddiel and Skinner. I can't imagine anyone singing 'World at your Feet' in the stands, and although I would pay a considerable sum of money to see it become a reality, the idea of 40,000 English fans rapping to 'World in Motion' is ludicrous. The best terrace chants are the ones that have history, think 'I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles', 'Keep Right On' or 'You'll Never Walk Alone'. Obviously, you can't create historical significance in a month-long tournament, which is why the chants either need comedy (Ant and Dec's 'We're on the Ball), or an easy rhythm and melody (think Fat Les and 'Vindaloo' but without such bizarre lyrics). Considering this man will do anything for money while he's in vogue, why not give the job to James Corden? His Comic Relief sketch featuring the England players was inspired, and the 'Gavin and Stacey' scene where Corden's character Smithy, Gavin and Gavin's Mum and Dad rap to 'World in Motion' could be a surefire hit in seconds.

The best bands wouldn't want the poisoned chalice- Embrace got the job because they were on the way down, which is why bands like Kaiser Chiefs and Kasabian won't have it. At least now anyone can write a World Cup song and release it we might get some originality and perhaps some humour. Thank God Jedward aren't English...

Virtually Addicted

As Christmas Day dawned bright and early, I unwrapped possibly the most evil yet brilliant creation known to man. 'Don't get addicted', my Mum said knowingly. 'Make sure it doesn't mess up your hopes of university', my Dad warned. I smiled, confident in my own self-restraint, sure that I wouldn't let my addiction get out of hand and wreck my entire life. But what could it be, glowing in my hands like a shiny beacon from Hell? Drugs? A keg of lager? No, something much, much worse. Football Manager 2010!

Sega's monstrous creation has been ruining the lives of blokes and their girlfriends since 1992, and this year, I was foolish/clever enough to bag myself a copy, with a little help from Father Christmas. Since then, I have done little else. The spookiest thing about the game is that one can settle down in front of the computer at 9pm, turn round to look at the clock, and discover it's 2 o'clock in the morning! Such is the addictive nature of the game, that I have developed 'Football Manager eyes'. This horrendous injury ranks alongside 'athlete's foot' and 'tennis elbow'- it consists of bags under the eyes, and severely dilated pupils surrounded by a bloodshot outer eye. I went to my optician's for some assistance, but decided to come back another day after seeing the queue of men aged between 8 and 55, with all the same problem. That, and a sore head where said bloke has neglected his wife in favour of Andrey Arshavin!

My delight at Birmingham City's incredible 13 match unbeaten run has been totally eclipsed by my despair at Birmingham City's incredible 13 match winless run on the game, under the stewardship of yours truly. I've actually become angry at my own fans after they told me that 'I was unfit to manage the club', and the sinking feeling I received when I got the sack took days to shift. I felt guilty for ruining the club in such a spectacular way, and for all that Gary Megson has been through recently, I bet he cannot say that he was sacked at 2.30 in the morning wearing his dressing gown with a cat on his lap.

My addiction to the game has helped me appreciate the troubles that managers go through, however. I shook aside my feeling of dislike for Stoke City to take the virtual reigns at the virtual Britannia Stadium. (I should perhaps add, for simplicity's sake, that everything is virtual in the game). Players are given a score out of 20 for every skill a professional footballer needs. For example, Rory Delap's long throw attribute is 20; Dimitar Berbatov's effort rating is 1. And that is generous for the big Bulgarian. Back at Stoke, I faced a dilemma that only myself and Tony Pulis will appreciate: do I play Delap, who, long throws apart, is useless? Or do I drop Delap and the long throw gameplan in favour of Liam Lawrence, who has been impressing in pre-season? I was so torn by the dilemma I held a backroom staff meeting, consisting of a cat, a coin to toss, and two pencils (one representing Lawrence, the other Delap). Needless to say, I was none the wiser, so I sacked my cat as the assistant manager, and brought in Peter Reid. In hindsight, the cat would have done a better job...

Basically, in the last two weeks or so, my life has been put on hold. Sega has a lot to answer for, and if I fail my exams, I'm suing whoever invented the blasted game. And to think, on Christmas Day morning, I waved away suggestions of ruining my life with wide eyed naivety and optimism... The folly of youth, eh?

Window of Opportunity

Happy New Transfer Window Everyone! Did you enjoy your party to celebrate? I know I got dreadfully drunk! It really makes me smile to see all those football managers lining the Embankment, counting down until the window opens. I saw Harry Redknapp, Sam Allardyce and Alex McLeish lined up singing 'Auld Lang Syne', although Avram Grant was simply sat in a corner crying. Must have had too much to drink...

This transfer window promises much for me as a Birmingham City supporter, with Carson Yeung reportedly promising £40m to spend. But while McLeish might be eyeing up a new striker or midfielder to strengthen his already promising squad, let not auld aquaintances be forgot, and cast our minds back to January 2003, when perhaps the most exciting transfer window for my club took place, and one of the greatest players ever to play for the club stepped into a press conference, much to the disbelief of thousands of Bluenoses...

It was the middle of January, and things looked bleak for Birmingham, in their debut season in the Premier League. Steve Bruce's men were perilously close to the relegation zone, having won one game since mid-November. Then, all of a sudden, rumours began to circulate. Bruce had acquired the sensible, if not spectacular signings of Matthew Upson, Stephen Clemence and Jamie Clapham. But there was one name creeping around which couldn't surely be true, could it? A World Cup winner? At St Andrews? In freezing cold January? Come off it! But the rumours were true, and Steve Bruce pulled off one of the signings of the decade, in Christophe Dugarry. Dugarry's Gallic flair gave everyone at Birmingham a boost, and it was only until he emerged from the tunnel against Arsenal that Blues fans finally began to think that it wasn't all an elaborate hoax.

In truth, it took a while for the new players to gel. The team lost 4 out of the next 5, and things began to look bleak. Then came a turning point in Birmingham's recent history. Amongst one of the most ferocious atmospheres I've experienced, Birmingham beat title challengers Liverpool, and then recorded back to back Premier League wins for the first time. Relegation now looked unlikely, and 'Le God', as Dugarry was known, really began to show his class.

On a Bank Holiday Monday, Blues played Southampton, and Dugarry pulled off the greatest performance I personally have ever seen in a Blues shirt. An unbelievable free kick coupled with another goal turned the game on its head, and Birmingham won 3-2. Although Messrs Savage, Cunningham and Upson deserve credit, it was Dugarry who pulled Birmingham out of the mire and gave the Blues faithful another season of Premier League football.

In truth, Dugarry never reproduced the form of that season, and it was 'Au Revoir' to 'Le God' in 2004. However, his contribution to the club will never be forgotten, and that Southampton game will live long in the memory. It seems that the fans' contribution to Dugarry hasn't been forgotten either- he now hosts a talk show in France in which he regularly mentions the raucous Blues crowd. Alex McLeish and other Premier League managers will be hoping that they can pull off a signing that is half as successful as Dugarry in 2003- proof that a loan can be worth infinitely more than a failed £32.5m signing- Robinho, anyone?

Our Father, Who Dart In Heaven

It's been a while since I last blogged on here, so firstly, I apologise for the lateness. I'd like to say it's because I've been saving up my efforts for one tremendous blog to end all blogs, but in actual fact, it's because I haven't been able to tear myself away from the World Darts Championships on Sky Sports.

'Darts? It's fat old men chucking arrows at a board, isn't it? Not for me!'

How wrong this view is, but sadly, most of the people who I've tried to convice otherwise have been too narrow-minded to see the bigger picture. The great thing about darts is possibly how very few people truly appreciate its entertainment. Whereas football, cricket and rugby are like blockbuster movies, darts is like art-house- excellent, but very few people actually see it. Fans of the 'sport' realise that darts is nowhere near as good for you as running or playing rugby, but does it really matter? The vast majority of people who adore the previously mentioned sports rarely even play their sport, so to dismiss darts as 'a fat man's game' smacks of hypocrisy. The great thing about darts is not that it leaves you breathless and feeling like you've just run a marathon. It's not that your 'favourite player' has just gone one step closer to the final. It's the atmosphere, the fans, the sheer fun-factor.

I often hear people saying that one of the things that is wrong with football is that the fans are too detached from the player. I agree. How can anybody identify with someone who 'nearly crashed their car when they were offered £55k a week instead of £60k'? Ashley Cole, hang your head in shame. In darts, there is absolutely none of that. The players appreciate that the time they spend at the oche in front of thousands is their five minutes of fame, before they go back to their job as a baker or an antiques dealer (see Steve 'the Muffin Man' Hine or Terry 'the Bull' Jenkins). While on the subject of Hine, can you see Frank Lampard or Steven Gerrard handing out muffins to their adoring fans on the way out of the tunnel? Of course not. The Premier League stars of today take themselves far too seriously, an accusation that cannot be levelled at darts players.

Last year, I was bought tickets to the Grand Slam of Darts at the Wolverhampton Civic Hall. I was tremendously excited, but I thought that there was no way it could be as fun as it looked on TV. How wrong I was. Thousands of beer-fuelled men (and, it has to be said, plenty of women) were packed inside, having the time of their lives. It was a brilliantly put-on event, with big screens everywhere and no shortage of atmosphere. By the end of the night, you might expect that with so much alcohol inside so many men, the atmosphere might turn sour and one or two might get a bit rowdy. I was very pleasantly surprised. In contrast to some of the days I've spent at the Test Match watching England, the fans were pleasant throughout, and not one person was ejected from the arena. This is where the true virtue of the sport shines through. No one actually cared who won! There was no animosity whatsoever, and to this day, it remains one of the most enjoyable evenings I've had watching sport.

For all that the players are like you or I, and keep their feet on the ground, one man continues to astonish the world of darts. Phil 'the Power' Taylor is quite possibly the most under-rated sportsman in the world, along with jockey AP McCoy. The World Darts Championship has admittedly become, in recent years, a competition to see who comes second to 'the Power', but this does not take away any of the enjoyment. Crowds fill the arena just to see Taylor, and the organisers predictably put the 15x World Champion last on the bill to build up the anticipation. And yet, Taylor keeps a sense of extreme humility! His boxing style walk-on music says it all really: Fanfare for the Common Man.

Darts will continue to win over its doubters. Anyone who watches the sport and fails to smile is probably dead, or extremely stubborn. Darts is now the second most watched sport on Sky Sports (behind football). There will be those who look down their noses and claim that the sport is simply 'fat blokes chucking things'. Let them think that. You and I can sit there with a smug smile of satisfaction, safe in the knowledge that thousands will be watching Andy 'the Pie Man' Smith play Roland 'the Tripod' Scholten, and having the time of their lives. And with names like that, how can you not just dare to have a look?