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...
Friday, March 19, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, March 1, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
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...
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...
Sunday, January 10, 2010
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?
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?
Monday, January 4, 2010
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?
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?
'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?
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