Category Archives: Football

Serenity Now

Champions again. 11 months later than hoped for, title No. 20 is in the bag and we can finally look forward to a little respite on the “Aguerooooooooo….” front. I’m reasonably confident MOTD will remove the clip from their opening titles next season and one assumes that Sky might cease playing it every 15 minutes. Persuading every single City fan I know to change their ringtone might prove a tad ambitious, however.

Despite talk of trebles and doubles ultimately proving just that, we’re left with a more than satisfactory single to savour – one that all of us would have settled for before a ball was kicked. Of course winning the league is always something to cherish, but winning it back from ‘them’ after ‘that’? This title feels more cathartic than celebratory.

After the final day drama last season, history will no doubt show this years title was won at a canter – but I remained somewhat twitchy up to the point we went 3-0 up v’s Villa. The bookies paying out early happens every year now, but the fact pretty much the whole of the football world (with the exception of Brian Kidd) declared the title race over and done with weeks ago only increased my sense of agitation. Talksport were dismissively telling listeners, “United have nothing to play for” prior to the West Ham game – pretty much the same line they were trotting out on the night we lost at Wigan 12 months previously. “Nothing to play for”? – we still needed another 7 points for fuck’s sake.

So despite being ‘inevitable’ and a ‘procession’ it never felt entirely comfortable. The thrills and spills of the opening half of the season were replaced by a return of the defensively solid, wildly unspectacular football that’s become our trademark over the last 3-4 years. Whilst there were some fantastic moments with late winners and goonage aplenty, it’s difficult to recall many games where the team performed for 90 minutes – the manner of the crucial 3 away victories at Liverpool, Chelsea and City being especially indicative.

Liverpool dominated us for the best part of the game and we only began to get a foot in the game once they’d had a man sent off; the trip to Stamford Bridge saw us storm into the lead then go to pieces before Clattenburg intervened and handed us back the initiative; RVP’s free kick at City, surely THE moment of the season – came off the back of a 20 minute spell where we’d barely had a kick and were hanging on desperately for a point. 3 pivotal games, 3 slightly fortuitous yet insanely satisfying wins. Our luck couldn’t last.

If those 3 fixtures were representative of United pre-Christmas, the 3 games biggest games during the 2nd half of the season resulted in 3 disappointing defeats. Madrid sent us out of Europe by winning at OT, a fairly abject performance saw us lose to Chelsea in the cup replay and City were well worth their victory in the recent derby. Our form aside from these games was solid enough but it’s fair to say, very rarely set the pulse racing. Winning is great of course and makes even the most uninspiring football palatable, but Manchester United should be about more than just winning.

Nevertheless, perhaps it’s slightly churlish to be airing these gripes now and instead we should instead focus on some good, old fashioned ballooning in light of what the management and squad have achieved – and it is a huge achievement. It won’t be celebrated with quite the same gusto that we’ve greeted previous trophies with, but that’s just an unfortunate consequence of us having gorged on success over the last 20 years.

My 40th is fast approaching and it occurred to me the other day that most of my first 2 decades were spent longing to see United win the league. That finally happened just prior to my 20th, so since then I’ve seen it happen another 12 times. 12 titles in 20 years – after it had taken us over 100 seasons of playing league football to amass the previous 8. If you’d informed me in the summer of 1992 that was going to occur, I’d have most likely called you a lying bastard before politely enquiring where you’d got your drugs from.

Whilst we can look forward to a relaxing few weeks receiving begrudging guards of honour and watching the tombola XL, the Berts are quietly licking their wounds and steadfastly maintaining an FA Cup will represent progress. After the awful noise which followed their title win last May, they’re pleasingly silent at present – no doubt gathering their breath for another sustained period of self-aggrandising bullshit should they overcome Wigan at Wembley. I received a solitary text from an alright one after the Villa game offering congratulations, this having been inundated with gloating messages at the close of last season. I didn’t bother sending any nonsense out myself, just having the knowledge that they’re hurting is enough.

Talking of pain, the serene ending to the season at OT is in marked contrast to the misery currently being experienced by supporters of Liverpool FC. If the manner of our title win feels ever so slightly anticlimactic, then do console yourself with the fact it’s gone down like a cup of cold sick on Merseyside. I’ve managed to go the whole season without mentioning Brendan Rodgers, mainly due to the fact I’m not sure where to begin – the man is truly a gift that keeps on giving. One expects he’ll be given another season before the scousers tire of his bluster, which is a relief because in the meantime he’s doing a fantastic job of promising an awful lot whilst in reality, delivering very little.

Rodgers, let’s not forget, wasn’t even first choice when he came in last summer. Roberto Martinez sussed the job was going to be a nightmare given the financial constraints in place following Dalglish’s extended shopping spree so sensibly gave them the swerve. It was clear FSG needed a good communicator after the PR disaster overseen by ‘Kenny’ and they got one. A master exponent of kind of flattering, syrupy rhetoric the scousers lap up, Rodgers is very good at talking so they took to him immediately. They called him ‘Brendan’ whereas everyone else pissed themselves laughing and called him ‘a dickhead’.

In fairness to Rodgers, he’s on a hiding to nothing ultimately – despite his brief surely not extending much beyond ‘manage expectations’. Although welcomed as ‘one of us’ after speaking in hushed tones about ‘class’, ‘dignity’ and ‘the Liverpool way’, it’ll be a surprise if he’s still there at the end of next season. It must be soul destroying for them at present: United champions, yet another slow realisation their owners aren’t going to pour millions in, manager a national laughing stock and their best player finally proving beyond all reasonable doubt he’s the biggest cunt in football. 23 years since they won the league now, roll on 2016…

Before I sign off, one last thing that’s been bugging me. Not content with insisting everyone should stand up for the Busby Babes every 10 minutes, I hear certain denizens of Stretford End Tier 2 spent part of the recent derby waving their JD Sports Adidas above their heads whilst bellowing ‘shoes off for the Busby Babes’. Here’s an idea for anyone involved – why not take it a step further and do something truly original? How about removing your shoes and beating yourselves unconscious with them instead?

Enjoy the summer and see you next season.

www.rednews.co.uk

Be Thankful For What You Got

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It was all going so well and everything seemed to be in place to beat Madrid. Plans, tactics, timing and personnel were bang on as the hour mark approached – then came the defining moment of the tie and United were somewhat unjustly reduced to 10 men. We got a bad decision, one that tipped an already tight game in Madrid’s favour and made things very difficult. Difficult, but not impossible, surely?

Yes, pretty much everyone barring Roy Keane accepted the referee had got it wrong. Though amidst the wailing and chest-beating that took place during the aftermath, I couldn’t help feeling that it was United, not the referee who’d lost the plot. Bad decisions happen in football matches all the time, it’s how you react to them that counts.

The manner in which we appeared so utterly flummoxed by a single injustice surprised me. Fergie was berating the 4th official and attempting to rouse the crowd whilst Mourinho reshuffled; as the game re-started only Rio Ferdinand seemed alert as to what was occurring whilst the rest of the team were simply stood looking at each other. Ryan Giggs meanwhile, continued to harangue the ref during every break in play for the next 15 minutes.

Our previous European Cup victories demonstrate that success at this level often requires an otherworldly level of focus, determination and bloodymindedness. We’ve had to overcome incredible odds before – so in my view, that should be the level of expectation that’s placed upon each set of players tasked with attempting to win it. The current team are surely bigger, better and more experienced than to be so phased by a simple red card?

We were still in a great position with a lead to defend yet completely went to pieces for 10 minutes. Understandable perhaps, but not what we should be striving for. Given the meticulous level of planning that goes into the preparations for these ties, I couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed by the collective response of the team, before they eventually regrouped and mustered up a final assault at the death. One hopes that these shortcomings were at least touched upon during the dressing room de-brief/Carrington inquest that followed – and defeat wasn’t merely put down to ‘bad luck’ or ‘poor referee’.

One thing pretty much everyone is in agreement of was the decision to omit Wayne Rooney from the starting XL, a move vindicated by another excellent turn from Danny Welbeck. A simple, tactical switch that looked to be paying great dividends up until Nani’s red card, but one that lends further credence to the growing suspicion that Rooney’s United career could be entering its final phase.

Rooney is a puzzling figure these days. On one hand you’ve got a player who’s approaching 200 goals in 400 games for United – who if he remains at OT, in a couple of years time will more-than-likely become the leading scorer in the club’s history before his 30th birthday. He’s 27 years old, and should by rights be in his prime as a footballer – not merely treading water as is frequently the case at present. There persists an uneasy sense that after 9 seasons here, the relationship between club and player has become somewhat stale. Is it time to confront the hard truth and recognise a split should take place sooner rather than later – before things start to get really messy?

I’ll admit now I’ve always been a huge Rooney fanboy. Even at the point Ronaldo went stupid and started scoring 40 goals a season, ‘Wazza’ remained the main man in my eyes. Those two of course were utterly peerless in tandem, the id-ridden superstar and the uncomplaining, selfless foil – in shit 80’s pop terms, Rooney was content to be the Andrew Ridgeley of the duo whilst Ronnie went all George Michaelish.

There was always the expectation that Ronaldo would fly the nest and realise his “dream” of joining Madrid, however October 2010’s news that Rooney wanted out came as something of a hammer blow to pretty much everyone connected with the club. I recall talking to a well known red immediately after the bombshell had been dropped. Genuinely gutted, he put the level of feeling on a par with the Spring of 1984 when rumours of Bryan Robson leaving for AC Milan or Juventus started to circulate.

Some may baulk at this comparison, but it’s true. Post-Keane, Rooney had become the heartbeat of United’s side. Yes, Ronaldo had reached a stratospheric level of performance that nobody ever predicted, but Rooney had developed greatly too. He could (still does) play anywhere on the pitch, his goalscoring reached prolific levels in the season after Ronnie’s departure (he’d racked up 30 by March) and it was only his injury in Munich that abruptly pulled the rug from under United’s season. He was rushed back for the Munich home game, playing when clearly unfit, a decision that led to him missing the games v’s Chelsea and Blackburn that resulted in Chelsea seizing the title initiative. As Duncan White noted in The Torygraph following that Chelsea defeat, “The obvious problem was the absence of a 5’10” lump of squat Scouse gristle.”

Although he’d reasserted himself as United’s star performer, he apparently shared fans’ concerns about the lack of star names incoming and decided top billing at OT wasn’t enough. With the £80M Ronaldo proceeds having disappeared into the Glazerhole as opposed to re-invested in the team, the prospect of losing Rooney wasn’t something anyone saw coming. Fergie included, it seemed. Most players making such a call would rightly expect to be waved out the door, instead Rooney was appeased with a massive new contract and assurances that the club shared his ambitions. The only other players that United had indulged to this extent were Ronaldo himself and before that, Cantona and perhaps Roy Keane – names of the highest calibre that indicate the regard in which Rooney was held.

Unlike Ronaldo, Cantona and Keane, Rooney has never managed to re-establish himself in supporters’ affections following the very public game of brinksmanship that was played out 3 years ago. A regular complaint is that his performances don’t merit the world class salary he’s drawing, not to mention his ongoing struggle for consistency and match fitness. You never know, from one game to the next which Rooney will be on display. One minute he’s pinging a perfect, Scholes-style 40 yarder across the pitch, moments later he’s miscontrolling a simple ball and failing to find a teammate 4ft away. Most agree he’s better suited playing upfront, yet that’s also the position where he’s left exposed and frustrated – on the margins of the action and denied of his natural inclination to roam around the pitch.

One could suggest it’s been a case of ‘careful what you wish for’. Rooney wanted United to sign the best players, which we undoubtedly did last summer with Van Persie’s acquisition. Did he naively believe such arrivals couldn’t possibly jeopardise his own status at the club? Or has he simply reached the stage where he’s not that arsed anymore? Unlikely. As has already been stated, Rooney remains an ego-free presence on the pitch who seems happy to share rather than hog the limelight. Aside from the rumours regarding his deteriorating relationship with Fergie and a couple of other alleged bust-ups, Rooney remains a well liked and popular figure within the dressing room…on the surface at any rate.

Fergie moved to put the recent rumours to bed by assuring one and all that Rooney continues to be an integral part of his plans and his future remains at United. Standard stuff in light of the fact we’re at a critical stage of the season with a potential double on the horizon. Indeed, if we end the season on a high with Rooney continuing his current scoring blitz it’s entirely plausible a contract offer will follow and this recent bout of speculation will be consigned to history. Camp Roo meanwhile, usually never slow to make their thoughts public, have been remarkably quiet of late. With only two years remaining on his deal, expect this one to be resolved sooner rather than later…

www.rednews.co.uk

Sketches Of Spain

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Most of my European travels with United were during the mid-nineties. After the ambition to see us win a league title was fulfilled, this was immediately succeeded by the desire to witness us crowned kings of Europe again. It therefore transpired that I ended up doing most of the trips on offer between ’96 and ’99, usually via UF Tours/Millwest and later, through Miss Ellies. That period fortunately coincided with the time when I was earning decent money for the first time, yet without facing the twin responsibilities of a mortgage and a family to support. I was in that all-too-brief, honeyed period in life where you can basically spend whatever you earn on whatever you like.

After the Nou Camp finale in ’99, things were getting serious with my future ex-wife and we’d (she’d) decided we were buying a place together. There seemed a nice symmetry to the fact that United had just won the biggest prize of all, so I voluntarily stated my intention to retire from European travel. A bold yet wholly necessary move since any disposable income for the foreseeable future was no longer my own – it was instead earmarked for house payments, an impending wedding and baby clobber. Real life had caught up with me.

Over the intervening years I’ve stuck to that vow pretty much, with only a handful of guest re-appearances. These days it’s a financial stretch to afford a season ticket each year and do a handful of domestic aways, never mind finding the cash to jet off round Europe with United half a dozen times a season. However, on the morning of the draw in December, a flurry of texts led to the decision that we’d be going to Madrid…and we weren’t just going to book it, we were gonna Thomas Cook it!

Doing the official trip in the company of the shirted up, butty box contingent is, of course, about as uncool as it can possibly get in Euro away traveller terms. But fuck it, the promise of direct flights and a nailed-on match ticket swung it so four of us duly signed up for the one night stopover – we were to fly out early on the Tuesday and return straight after the game in the early hours of Thursday.

Terminal 1 was as busy as anticipated on Tuesday morning, with plenty of familiar faces milling about and the bars doing a brisk trade. Most annoyingly, and to the sniggering amusement of my fellow travellers, it was my turn to get my possessions turned inside out (nothing wrong with owning a floral print wash bag in my opinion) before being treated to a full (external) body search. After such hilarity, the flight itself passed off without incident and we were soon touching down at Madrid Barajas.

An hour later we’d done the coach to the hotel, dumped our bags, necked the welcome drink and scoffed a plate of the ropey-looking paella our hosts had served up. My old man had been over for the 0-0 back in 2000 and recommended we do the ground tour if possible, so as it was still only about 1pm we decided to get the Metro up to the Bernabeu.

The scene outside the ground was very similar to what you’d see at Old Trafford the day before a game: TV crews setting up outside broadcast facilities and lots of Japanese tourists taking photographs. Inside the stadium, although impressive, the museum was more of an extended trophy room than anything, with Real seemingly having no problem in passing off honours won elsewhere as their own – Ronaldo’s Balon D’Or and Golden Boot of 2008 were each out on display.

After a couple of hours doing the tourist bit, it was time to start living up to our billing of ‘marauding English hooligans’ so we headed back into the centre to commence drinking. It was a great afternoon, I can’t really remember any precise details but recall visiting several tidy, backstreet drinking establishments and getting slowly pissed. Perhaps crucial to the relaxed tone of the day was that fact we managed to spend the entire afternoon without hearing another British accent.

By early evening we were ready for something to eat, and helpfully my mate had arranged a tour guide in the form of a female relative of his who’s living in Madrid whilst studying. Any expectations we had of being introduced a hot, young student were dismissed after he explained the lady in question was in fact in her early sixties. Nevertheless, Auntie Carol was sound as a pound and the tapas place where she’d opted to meet us was absolutely bang on. A few bottles of wine, great food and a couple of expletive-free hours later we were back out on the streets looking to sample the best night life Madrid could offer.

In reality of course, this meant we walked a couple of hundred yards to the nearest place that was showing the football. The boozer in question was an ‘Irish Pub’ (ie it sold Guinness) – but not so Irish that there were any Irish staff, patrons or indeed, were even showing the Celtic game. After a couple of hours holed up there we left in search of a change of scene. We were all pretty fucked by this point so set off walking back towards what seemed to be the main drag of the city centre, carefully negotiating the high-kicking prostitutes and kamikaze moped drivers encountered whilst en-route.

After sacking the idea of strippers and/or clubbing we instead settled in one of those curious, late-night drinking dens that seem native to Southern Europe – sort of a green grocers by day, fluorescent-lit shithole bar by night. Having walked in the five of us (we’d picked up a stray somewhere along the line) were immediately sought out for attention by half a dozen screeching, 50+ year old harridans from Hartlepool. Yes, Hartlepool.

One of our party was straight in there, beer goggles in full effect having convinced himself that one of these frightsome creatures was actually ‘alright’. She wasn’t. His chances didn’t last very long at any rate as he proceeded to do one of the best ‘Del Boy’ style fall-overs I’ve ever seen. It was spectacular – missed his chair completely and ended up doing a Tiswas-esque, ‘dying fly’ in front of the whole bar. In fairness to him though, if you’re going to lose all credibility in front of a woman, surely it’s better it occurs when chatting up a complete rotter he’d have spent a lifetime regretting? We got out before things went further downhill, jumped a cab and found sanctuary in the hotel bar for a nightcap.

Considering my last moments of Tuesday night were spent zig-zagging across reception before collapsing in bed with the room lurching around me, I woke up on the Wednesday feeling reasonably sprightly. Perhaps not exactly ‘sprightly’ then, but at least ‘not dying’. It was too early and we were all too rough to go straight back on it, so my suggestion to visit the Reina Sofia National Art Museum was only met with mild suspicion rather than hysterical laughter. I explained it would be something to do with a hangover so we set off, doing our best ‘four metropolitan sophisticates on a cultural excursion’ impression.

The Reina Sofia was top, if you are into art…which I’m not really, but I like to pretend I am a bit. Full of Picassos, Dalis and Miros and loads more modern, weirder shit too. It was only €6 to get in and proved a great place to wander round and kill a couple of hours. We’d only been in there about 10 minutes when we almost walked into a familiar looking figure…well, if it wasn’t Avram Glazer!

I’ll be honest now, none of us did or really said anything…though one member of our group sort-of emitted a low growl (he must have been terrified at that). He clocked that we had clocked him and his bodyguard gave us a suspicious look… but that was it. I’d love to report that I bowled over and went straight into an impassioned 20 minute diatribe about the evils of the takeover, but in truth I was in the kind of hungover state where I could barely think coherently, never mind speak. Pathetic I know, but there you go…

To cleanse ourselves of any lingering aestheticism, we left the Reina Sofia and went for a KFC before heading back into the centre to meet a couple of mates staying at a different hotel to us. By now the day trippers had landed and the quiet of the previous day had well and truly dissolved as the main squares became a sea of pissed up reds with the local police looking on menacingly. Not fancying an afternoon of singing, jumping up and down and showering each other with beer, we left them to it and set about finding somewhere to drink away from the classic Euro away soundtrack of police dogs barking and blaring sirens.

Wednesday was a lot warmer than the previous day so we found a nice spec outside a bar, sat in the sun and settled down to watch the Madrileni go about their business. Unfamiliar cities are great places for people watching of course, and several earth-shattering conclusions were reached throughout the duration of the afternoon. The Spanish, as a nation, are incredibly short. Spanish girls, in the main, dress considerably better than their English counterparts. Finally, indisputable proof was presented that Madridistas have great taste in dogs – we saw Dalmatians, Basset Hounds and Beagles all out on parade…not a mongrel to be seen. Truly remarkable scenes.

As dusk began to settle, the serious business of the day was put to bed and thoughts turned to the actual match. We arrived at the ground about an hour before kick-off with a view to grabbing a beer nearby, that idea soon abandoned when we saw the growing queues at the gates and the increasingly twitchy police presence. It was blindingly obvious that it would be chaos as kick-off approached so we joined the crowd and decided to get in early. I’ve not heard of anyone who managing the jib and would be stunned if people succeeded this time out, given there were at least 5 separate checks and searches prior to the actual turnstiles – probably a response to our last visit in ’03 when plenty got in with snides.

The match itself? Well you’ve all seen it. Possibly fortunate to be level at HT, United settled and looked more than comfortable during the 2nd half. Welbeck put in a magnificent shift, Jones did a creditable job and Kagawa was absolutely bobbins – all in all, mission accomplished and we look forward to the return leg.

After the game we got kept in for ages before filing out, locating the coach and heading back to the airport for lots more queuing and waiting around before the 2hr flight home – then back in the house by 4am for a much needed sleep. In conclusion: a fantastic couple of days. A great city where it was easy to swerve the bellends, nice bit of sun, ace food and wine, friendly locals (police apart) and a decent result too. Good stuff.