Showing posts with label football. Show all posts
Showing posts with label football. Show all posts

Thursday, August 25, 2011

Waiting For Arsene


Vladimir: We'll hang ourselves tomorrow. Unless Arsene buys.
Estragon: And if he buys?
Vladimir: We'll be saved.


Estragon: We might try him with other names.
Vladimir: I'm afraid he's dying.
Estragon: It'd be amusing.
Vladimir: What'd be amusing?
Estragon: To try him with other names, one after the other. It'd pass the time. And we'd be bound to hit on the right one sooner or later.


Vladimir: Don't go yet.
Samir: I'm going.
Vladimir: What do you do when you fall far from help?
Samir: We wait till we can get up. Then we go on. On!
Vladimir: Before you go tell them to sing.
Samir: Who?
Vladimir: The fans.
Samir: To sing?
Vladimir: Yes. Or to think.


Vladimir: Let's wait and see what he says.
Estragon: Who?
Vladimir: Arsene.
Estragon: Good idea.
Vladimir: Let's wait till we know exactly how we stand.


Estragon: What exactly did we ask him for?
Vladimir: Oh ... Nothing very definite.
Estragon: A kind of player.
Vladimir: Precisely
Estragon: And what did he reply?
Vladimir: That he'd see.
Estragon: That he couldn't promise anything.
Vladimir: That he'd have to think it over.


Estragon: Nothing happens, nobody comes, everybody goes, it's awful!


Vladimir: Well? Shall we buy?
Estragon: Yes, let's buy.
They do not move

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Commentator commentry

When I was a kid I quite fancied being a football commentator. Like most idle fantasies of my childhood, I have no idea what the hell I was thinking, but my guess is that it was a way of being involved in the game long after it had become obvious I was never going to play the game. A those who can, do, those who can't, commentate, sort of thing. I at least never wanted to be a referee, which would be inexcusable, like wanting to be a policeman, a role for emotionally undernourished types. Having said that I once acted as the ref in a primary school game between my year and the year below and had a great time disallowing their goals for no legitimate reason whatsoever. Which, such was our collectively shaky understanding of the actual rules, they accepted without much fuss, .

At age about 9 my class made a book with all the rules of football in it. The offside rule was written up as "You are offside when you are in the other team's half", which even at that age most of us could see wasn't the whole picture. So it's not that boys are genetically programmed to understand the offside rule, it's just that we've generally been trying to get our heads around it for longer than girls, who in those days and at that age seemed to spend their whole time arranging coloured pens. Richard Keys and Andy Gray should probably remember that there was a time they didn't fully understand the rules of football - like for instance the rule about not chatting shit into an open mic - although alas they seem for the moment to have kept their places as the two smuggest men on the box.

Some people have been suggesting that as Ron Atkinson was sacked for being racist off-air, so these two leprechauns-of-culture should also take a long walk off a short plank. But Ron used the word 'nigger' and he's not a rapper, so he had to go. What will happen to Gray or Keys when they have to work with a female commentator? I'm hoping for spontaneous combustion.

How do you become a football commentator? Do you just become a commentator and then move up the ranks to football? Or do you somehow get into football and shuffle along the aisle until you get to commentating? Where are the jobs advertised? It's not as if you can study it at Loughborough. Where do they get new commentators from? Perhaps when you get dropped calls, or missed calls from strange numbers, it's the BBC, phoning round listening to people's answerphone messages and "hellos" in search of the perfect commentating voice.

Not that commentating is all it's cracked up to be. Can you really make a living as a commentator when there's not that many matches on anyway? Can a second tier commentator make enough money out of being on five minutes of MOTD highlights to be able to get by the rest of the week? What do they do the rest of the time? Bone up on football encyclopedias? Practice pronunciation skills and comment sprinting? And it must be quite tiring, the concentration of having to commentate, to be able to tell which player the ball's gone to in a blink of an eye, and with Colemanballs always on your shoulder. Myself, I think I'd prefer the commentator's mate's job, where you don't have to do much of the grunt work and only have to step in with football knowledge occasionally, most of which you can probably just make up.

Obviously recruitment is slow in the commentating business, what with there being not much staff turnover. Once you're in the commentary chair, you're set, it's the world's last ever job for life. But down the pecking order, you need to start thinking seriously about wacking some of your senior colleagues if you ever want to get the big games. Perhaps that's what the Graykeysgate leaker was thinking. Or, and this is my guess, they've both made such cunts of themselves over the years that everyone who works with them is gasping at the chance to turn them in.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Dr Football

Jonathan Wilson PhD (Football Studies) will see you now.

Jonathan Wilson can explain football tactics. I don't mean talk about football tactics - lobbing 4-4-2s, 4-3-3s and 4-3-XR3is about the place like so many Rory Delap throws, provoking mayhem in the area (of your footballing brain) - Jonathan Wilson doesn't talk about tactics the way that most people do, ie. knowing precisely fuck all, Jonathan Wilson actually explains tactics, explains what was going on when one player came on, another went off, explains why 4-4-2 doesn't work anymore, explains what Capello was thinking bringing on Wright-Phillips for Lennon (well I assume he can, I haven't actually seen it, and there are limits for anybody). Jonathan Wilson may be the Prometheus of football commentary, bringing the fire of genuine knowledge to a realm of hitherto frozen wastes. So bone up now, while the football season is in rare abeyance; and you'll soon be able to unpick England's failings with more rigour than just "Heskey's fucking shit! Lampard's a cunt!"

Sunday, May 02, 2010

Football's mercenaries

It must be Football's Only A Game weekend in the Guardian. Maybe they're trying to soften us up for England's disastrous election results world cup campaign.

First, Tottenham's Benoit Assou-Ekotto, that rare thing, an articulate footballer says: "The president of my former club Lens said I left because I got more money in England, that I didn't care about the shirt. I said: 'Is there one player in the world who signs for a club and says, Oh, I love your shirt?' Your shirt is red. I love it."

Typical Spurs.

And here Danny Mills (or Daniel John 'Danny' Mills, as wikipedia has it) - who Arsenal fans will remember chiefly for being reverse nutmegged by Thierry Henry - says that players don't take football anywhere nearly as seriously as fans, and that the fans should probably calm down a bit.

That's obviously true, but players have other motivations to play, like, I don't know, their weekly cash enemas, whereas fans are the one's paying. If the fans didn't feel so passionate, emotional, absorbed, obsessed and basically feel about football the same way they did when they were six years old, how many of them would bother shelling out their money and time on over-priced tickets, travel, merchandise, pints of pissy lager, sky sports subs, all things that mean that Danny Mills never has work another day in his life.

Thursday, April 29, 2010

Thiago: Mourinho told me to get sent off

Thiago Motta today revealed that it was Jose Mourinho's tactical genius that got him sent off in the 25th minute in last night's semi-final against Barcelona.

"Jose had a little word with me before the game and he said: "Look Thiago, I want you to get sent off as soon as possible, then we can crowd the defence, frustrate the Barcelonians and no-one will complain that I routinely send out dull, defensive football teams. So I did. And it worked."

Red Card

Motta was sent off with a straight red, having already received a yellow card in the 10th minute.

The Brazilian midfielder said: "That Jose, he is a tactical genius. He even told us at half-time not to worry in the 90th minute about them scoring a second, because the ref would call Toure's handball."

Mourinho said all credit was due to his team. "They defended like lions, every one, it was a masterclass in how to frustrate and disappoint and all those things that really make football great."

But as the Inter manager celebrated last night many observers noted that his eyes shone with an usual glow, some even calling them devil's eyes. Pep Guardiola, the defeated manager of Barcelona, said: "He must have evil powers, how else could he topple the righteous forces of Barca?"

Consternation

And there was constenation last night after the tactical genius 'accidentally' revealed that he'd be taking up residence on a secret island somewhere in the Pacific, from where he plans more bold successes for his dark forces.

The cackling villain said: "Yes, certainly, I will soon be considering how I can eliminate beauty in the world - there's too much of it. I don't think it's good for the soul. Send me your Barcelonas, send me your James Bonds, I will crush them."

Lionel Messi, the greatest footballer in the history of the universe and the universe before that but it's a bit early to say about any other universes, was heard exclaiming: "God damn, it'll take an extra righteous army to get up now and crush the evil doer, it needs, it needs SUPERMAN can you hear me??? SUPERMAN help!!!"

Mourinho replied: "Ah, who is this zooperman? Come out son of Jor-El I will destRRRRRROOOYYYYY you!!!"

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Arsenal undo Celtic knot

Down to the Emirates for the tie given the unlikely subtitle "The Battle of Britain" by the souvenir floggers. With Arsenal two up from the away leg, it needed a Celtic goal in the first 20 mins, which was in the event never on the cards. Celtic turned up in an away strip of fluorescent green and black hoops, giving them the look more of a swarm of radioactive insects than a Champions League worthy football club. Like radioactive insects, they worked hard but were more or less put to the sword by Arsenal's sharper interplay. Eduardo missed a couple of sitters and got what looked from the other side of the ground like a soft penalty, and which apparently was a blatant dive. When he took the penalty you knew he was going to be cool, but he was so cool the goalie had practically packed up and gone home before he bothered to kick the ball. Crowdwise the Celtic obviously had a lot of life in them, the Emirates roused itself barely a few times; in response to the Scots' "Shall we sing a song for you?" the Londoners couldn't even be bothered to sing much of "Shall we score a goal for you?". There was a song to the old Adebayor hit (Sloop John B) which ended "We've got Arshavin, fuck Adebayor", but I failed to pick up what the first bit was, doth endeth my career as terrace scribe (but where my ears fail me, google shall prevail - it starts: "He's five foot four/He's five foot four"); the best bit of wit was when the Celtic crowd were lustily leaping up and down in their fluorescent tops - reminding me of when I watched a I think Croatian side here and their fans jumped up and down, shirts off to a man, for more or less the whole game - anyway the Celtic were leaping up and down in celebration of I guess not being in Scotland for a few hours and the bemused Arsenal crowd responded by singing: "Jump up/If you're 4-0 down." Which was nice.

A brief mention of last night's "organised hooliganism" down at West Ham - Millwall, but rather than a return to the old days it seems to have been a ruck for old time's sake. I don't think the two teams have played each other in the last ten years, so perhaps their two "legendary firms" were just reacquainting themselves with each other. Certainly there was no hint of knuckle in the bourgeois environs of Ashburton Grove, even with Glasgow in town.