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Diamonds Are Forever

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It’s been a stop-start beginning to the season, both in terms of the incessant international breaks that dictate the calendar at this time of year and the stuttering football we’ve witnessed. On the whole though, with some dodgy looking away games already out of the way – things aren’t looking too bad with us sat in 2nd place, 4 points behind Chelsea.

Though he’d never admit it, Howard Webb must dread being allocated our games. Despite seeing off Newcastle quite comfortably, you just knew that the next day’s headlines were going be made by some perceived injustice stemming from the fact he was in charge. This time it was a stray Van Persie elbow and the fact that Webb had the temerity to rule out a Newcastle goal because it HADN’T fully crossed the line. Pathetically, Radio 5 actually opened their sports coverage with this story the next morning. Talk about playing to the masses…

Despite ultimately ending in defeat, the Tottenham game a week earlier was a stormer – such a shame that it it took us being 0-2 down to garner any kind of response from the players or the crowd. It’s become a familiar script: we start off slowly and seem content to simply sit and contain – the tempo only increases once the realisation dawns we’ve fallen behind and oh shit, now we’ve suddenly got a game to chase.

Giggs was awful yet again and the reasons for starting him get less and less clear as the months/years tick by. I mean, starting Giggs and Scholes together was clocked by most of us as a big no-no 3 or 4 years ago, yet we’re still persisting with the idea now. Just play The Brand, that useless lump Anderson even, get the tombola out to see what that throws out…just not Giggs and Scholes in tandem anymore. Next month they’ll have a combined age of 77. SEVENTY SEVEN. Enough now. Please.

Still, it was a great 2nd half after Rooney’s introduction – very nice to see him bang on it with his touch seemingly back in place. The OT crowd woke up briefly too, for the 1st time in ages it actually felt like I was at a football match. Once upon a time the schrill sound of school kids was only heard at reserve games or pre-season friendlies; nowadays it’s a weekly occurrence…and a fairly welcome one as at least it punctuates the silence from the home crowd and the incessant ‘who are ya’s and ‘Fergie’s right, your fans are shite’s emanating from the away section.

Having been ripped to shreds by Spurs during that 1st half, we’ve managed to get back on track via the introduction of what Fergie has proudly christened ‘the diamond’ – without getting too ‘zonal marking’ about things, it basically looks like we’ve temporarily abandoned ‘the doughnut’ to experiment with the novel idea of playing midfielders…in midfield. I know, amazing isn’t it?

The diamond got its first outing in the (urgh) Capital One cup tie at home to Newcastle – and what an utter shitcunt of a competition that is these days. How United manage to get away with charging nigh on full price for reserve games is nothing short of scandalous – but they’ll continue to do so knowing most ST holders are obliged to buy a ticket regardless of whether they actually want to go…the prospect of not wanting to miss out on a Cup Final ticket is surely the only explanation why any non-masochist would subscribe to the ACS and willingly pay to watch such garbage.

I don’t know anyone who looks forward to these games and whatever minor relevance the competition might have enjoyed in years passed has long since expired. All season ticket holders I know watch the draw hoping we’re handed an away tie so their card isn’t charged another £40…there’s something very, very wrong when that’s the case. Ditto the amount of people who buy a ticket and can’t face attending…and those like yours truly who are brainless enough to pay, turn up, then disappear at HT for the more appealing prospect of watching the 2nd half in the pub. I guess if we’re daft enough to offer up our credit card details to the club, then we’re also daft enough to merit the routine shafting we’re dealt.

Talk of routine shaftings brings us to the first European away trip of the season. I’m too old and my mortgage is too big to contemplate a 4 day, autumnal jolly to Transylvania, but a good time was enjoyed by all who made it, I’m reliably informed. Nice weather, friendly locals, beer at 60p a pint, far enough away to put off the knobhead contingent…Cluj was always destined to be a good trip.

“None of our lot arrested, 2 hours sleep out of 55, got banned for life by Jet2.com…just a good piss up really”, was how a younger family member succinctly summed up his experience. Oh and if you were confused and somewhat disturbed like I was about the large amount of shirtless ballooning going on – that was mainly down to 50 odd Polish barmies who turned up in our end, apparently. Thankfully they didn’t start Poznaning and lower the tone further still.

Watching at home on telly only hammers home how deathly dull the group stages of the Champions League have become – even Tyldesley and Townsend in the commentary box were struggling to sound remotely enthused during the 2nd half. Like last year, we’ve been beneficiaries of a ridiculously easy draw that virtually guarantees progression to the knock-out stages. Unlike last year, it doesn’t look like we’re going to contrive to fuck things up spectacularly this time round. Progress of sorts, then – perhaps another routine final humiliation at the hands of Barca isn’t out of the question?

Copyright Red News – October 2012

www.rednews.co.uk

In The Bleak Midwinter

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“Nani and Anderson having good days, Cleverley buzzing around like the anti-Gibson, Young looking instantly comfortable on the OT stage and Rooney back to his imperious best…it’s hard not to sound giddy.” This, dear reader, was me getting a little bit carried away in this column back in September – caught up in that early season period where we fleetingly looked untouchable and the possibilities seemed endless. It was a brief foray into positive thinking and it won’t happen again. So tonight (Matthew), we’re going to party like it’s 2005. Dooooom is back.

Even during those carefree days of our autumnal bloom, things didn’t feel quite right. Although the midfield was stringing some delightful, intricate passing manoeuvres together (think Bolton away), at times (like Arsenal and Chelsea at home) it resembled an ever-widening chasm. It just seemed churlish to dwell too much on that back then, as new faces appeared to be bedding in nicely and the team took on an air of free-scoring invincibility.

I expressed certain reservations to a mate post-Chelsea that if we didn’t make some changes, big problems might lie on the horizon in the shape of Liverpool and City. As it turned out, another lukewarm Anfield showing gave no hint as to the horror of what would unfold a week later in the derby. I’ve still not seen the last three City goals, nor will I ever – sitting through several first-hand accounts from traumatised friends and relatives was bad enough.

No apologies for leaving at 3-1, either. I suffered every second of the 5-1 back in ’89, slumped in the rapidly emptying Platt Lane as City celebrated. It wasn’t pleasant and isn’t an experience I’m intent on ever repeating. Top tip: the bar in the Cornerhouse makes for an effective, non-football, post-match hiding place.

Doom-laden United fans have had a tough time of things since the unexpected return to title winning form in 2007. 4 league titles in five years and 3 European Cup finals was much more than papering over cracks, it was the most sustained period of success in the club’s history. It’s hard to make a case for imminent disaster when your team is hoovering up silverware and (depending on if you can make sense of the financial reports) seemingly making inroads into paying off the mountainous debt our lovely owners saddled us with.

Yes, us doom-mongers have been quietened to some extent in recent years. Ongoing gripes about the gaping hole in central midfield have provided some respite but Green & Gold campaign aside, continued success on the pitch has neutered widespread complaint about overall lack of investment. We just sound like spoilt bastards when we moan. Other clubs would kill to be in our position, surely?  Just look at the pretty, silver trophies and shush…

Failure to qualify for the latter stages of the Champions League, however, means that questions are going to be asked. A favourable draw should have secured an easy passage into the last 16. So is it complacency, arrogance or lack of personnel that’s led us into the footballing purgatory of the Europa League?

It’s probably a mixture of all three. Qualifying year on year has seen the group stages reduced to something team and fans alike have started to sleepwalk through. People trot out the cliché about CL nights at OT being ‘special’ and possessing some sort of unique atmosphere. What atmosphere? The second half of the Benfica fixture was played out in virtual silence. I met up with a mate in town prior to that game, a home and away red for many years – and he genuinely thought we were playing Crystal Palace in the League Cup that night. Amusing in itself, but indicative of the disregard many of us hold for the group stages these days. Once upon a time, any participation in the European Cup was something to be cherished – early finishes from work and a lengthy session pre-match were de rigueur.

Of course it’s not just in the stands where malaise has been evident. On-pitch performances have veered between slack and shambolic, particularly at home. I’m never slow to criticise Nani, the guy infuriates me and his decision making makes me despair – but the decision to leave him out of the Basel home game was a shocker, particularly with Rooney being out injured. Although erratic, at least he’ll try to make things happen – even if they don’t always come off. Where others are ponderous and instinctively look to consolidate, he’s CREATIVE. Basel arrived at OT and for 20 minutes looked absolutely terrified, an hour later they were playing us off the park. They should have been smashed out of sight.

When the question of us struggling was raised in the press conference following dropped points vs Benfica, Ferguson was incredulous and dismissed the notion out of hand. Although a perfectly valid point given our laboured performances, to him the suggestion was ridiculous, insulting even. He obviously has continued faith in our enduring ability to do just about enough to get over the line as we’ve managed to do time and time again…only this time we fell short.

It’s only taken a couple of injuries for the known problem area of the squad to be exposed once more. Cleverley has proved a huge loss, one far greater than should be the case for a player with only half a dozen appearances to his name. Carrick, Park and Fletcher continue to labour through most games, in turns low in confidence/form, ability and fitness. Pogba and Morrison are presumably not considered quite ready yet – so consequently Phil Jones now finds himself a first choice central midfielder.

Fergie’s position on the matter is maddening. I mean, we all love the guy for what he’s achieved here and congratulations on doing 25 years and getting a stand named after you and all that… but what the fuck? Are we seriously supposed to believe that he’s truly content with this midfield? Under previous regimes he’s always spent big when necessary – the (spit) ‘value’ line trotted out in recent times just doesn’t add up. We are Manchester United and have always had to pay above and beyond the perceived market rate, whether that be £2.3M on Gary Pallister or £31M on Rio Ferdinand – both astronomical fees at the time. There was no mention of value then, it was ‘we needed this player, this is what he cost’.

If Fergie/Gill played a straight bat (ha!), simply held their hands up and said ‘look, we can no longer afford the going rate for the player we really need anymore’ (you can guess who I’m alluding to – the one beginning with ‘S’, always injured, allegedly after a private jet…or someone like him) then we could deal with it and at least there’d be some acknowledgement of the elephant in the room. It’s absurd to try and put a figure on ‘value’ in modern football anyway – it recently cost £40 or so to watch the reserves play Palace. That doesn’t strike me as particularly good ‘value’ either but we’re still expected to pay it.

So there we have it. Vidic out for the season, City top of the league, midfield still fucked, we’re in the Europa League and Darron Gibson’s available for selection. Merry Christmas.

Copyright Red News – December 2011

Photography copyright Ian Bramham www.ianbramham.com

www.rednews.co.uk

Summertime Blues

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Gutted. Again. Although we went in as underdogs, it was still a mightily humbling experience to be given a football lesson like that. I went into full-on gloom mode in the immediate aftermath of the final, attempting a half-hearted media blackout in the hope of swerving all TV, radio and newspapers for the next fortnight.

Writing last time out, just prior to the Barca final, I took a cautiously optimistic view as to what might unfold – in retrospect, a doomed attempt to spare my feelings should we receive another arse-kicking. Didn’t work.

Barcelona are currently on a different level. One that I’ve never come across before – they knocked the ball around like it was a Monday night 5 a side at the JJB, not a European Cup final at Wembley. Bollocks to your mid-90’s AC Milan or Brazil ‘82 or whoever, this lot are simply better. We tried, we had a plan, and for what it’s worth – I think we picked the right team. Sadly, we got nowhere near them. Xavi, Iniesta, Messi, Busquets….just too good. They deserve all the success they get. The fuckers.

The dismal bank holiday Monday following the final saw the victory parade we should have been granted back in 2008 finally take place. Thousands turned out, yet in nothing like the numbers witnessed following the treble win in’99. I feared the occasion might be a damp squib from the moment it was first mooted  – these events need to be announced spontaneously, no matter what plans are in place behind the scenes.

What we were left with was the sight of (Bebe aside) pretend-exultant footballers brandishing a trophy won over 2 weeks previously. Call me a misery-arse, but that sort of posturing and staged-fun should be the preserve of City – now it sadly turns out that they’re capable of winning things again. Anyway, it’s done now.

The summer break affords us all the opportunity to adopt the appearance of well-rounded humans with a broad range of interests other than football. In my case, ‘broad range of interests’, actually translates as ‘half-heartedly catching up with a few other, less-important sports’.

Lancashire (stuck on Merseyside currently) have made a storming start to the cricket season, though were given a recent hammering by an even stronger-looking Durham side. The Grand Prix in Canada became very watchable due to a two hour rain delay that led to comically inept efforts to dry out a waterlogged track with yard brushes and cars with kitchen roll. Andy Murray looks poised to reach the later stages of Wimbledon before inevitable failure and fellow red Rory McIlroy was in superlative form as he destroyed the rest of the field to win his first major at the US Open golf. None of this is football though, is it?

I attempted to pull myself back into real life by tentatively switching on England’s opener vs Spain in the Under 21s Championship. Wellbeck, Jones, Cleverley, De Gea and Smallers all on view, well worth a look…. I lasted about 15 minutes. Watching a team of dashing young Spaniards playing keep ball around a willing but less able team from these isles brought it all flooding back. Too soon. I later heard it got slightly better as the game went on but I wouldn’t know. ‘Canal Walks with Julia Bradbury’ was on BBC4 instead, nothing to upset me there. Julia was in Birmingham and it was raining – which suited my mood.

The most entertaining aspect of the Under 21s brief appearance in the tournament was the chance to revel once more in the unrivalled fuckwittery of Stuart ‘Psycho’ Pearce – a man whose qualifications for managing at international level appear to consist of chest-beating rhetoric, a nice line in cliches and sharing the same haplessly deluded love of his country as demonstrated by those who somehow feel compelled to line the streets of London and wave at royal weddings.

Back in 1992, I enjoyed a brief dalliance with a girl from Nottingham. I fancied her like mad, despite the fact she had a long-term boyfriend and was a rabid Forest fan – season ticket holder and all that. Forest girl was at University round here but hailed from the outskirts of Nottingham somewhere and when United played there that season, (the 1-0 defeat that was the start of the big slump) I took up an offer to travel down with her. We had to call in at her folks’ gaff for some reason and as we neared their house, she pointed out Stuart Pearce’s place. The clown only had a 30ft pole in his garden, proudly flying an enormous flag of St George. ‘What the fuck is that?’, I enquired. ‘Oh yeah, it’s his flag’, she smiled…‘his wife bought him it for his birthday.’

What a fucking nutcase. Remember this was pre-Euro ‘96 – the tipping point after which every lunatic nationwide now sees it as their civic duty to fly the flag at every available opportunity. This bellend was one of the originals! Despite concerted efforts, I never did manage to get into Forest girl’s knickers – though we did later sign her hero at that time, Roy Keane. Win some, lose some.

Based on the evidence seen in England’s performances in the tournament, Pearce’s footballing ideologies appear to mirror his oft-recounted love of 1970s punk  – ie predictable, lacking in subtlety and years out of date. ‘Psycho’ still inhabits a world when the first priority is to ‘knock it long’ or if feeling particularly adventurous, ‘get it out wide’ – bollocks to that ‘actually stringing a few passes together’ stuff.

During his last season in charge at City they managed 10 league goals at home all season, and none after New Years Day 2007. None. So the FA’s response is to parachute him into the Under 21s job and task him with nurturing the next generation of English football’s brightest prospects. He’s been in charge for over 50 games now. God help them.

Once upon a time, back when the average transfer fee reflected the sum most Premier League players earn in a week nowadays, summer transfer speculation was something that was played out furtively. The football fan then had to seek out gossip, it wasn’t mainlined into your brain 24 hours a day via SSN and ITK twitter gobshites. The only real sources available were teletext, the papers and what your mate had heard. I recall being stuck on the Med during the summer of 1987, dutifully trotting out with a few Pesetas each morning to buy a two day old Daily Mirror, desperately seeking confirmation of Brian McClair’s much-anticipated arrival.

Nowadays it’s incessant, and a fair amount of self-discipline is required not to be sucked into the vast quantities of endless bullshit on offer. Writing in mid-June I can guarantee this much: some deals will happen, others will not. We’ll sign some players, so will our rivals. Yes and maybe, if we’re lucky, we’ll end up with a much-needed creative midfield player – maybe even one with a foreign sounding name who’s cost a shitload of money. In the meantime, until we do, just do me a favour…put the cricket on and shut the fuck up.

Roll on August…

Copyright Red News – July 2011

www.rednews.co.uk