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'...