Tag Archives: premier league

Diamonds Are Forever

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?

www.rednews.co.uk

Perfect 10

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My first ever meeting with a real life footballer was a cringe inducing, sobering experience which taught me a valuable lesson: never speak to them. I was 14 years old and playing pool in Menorca when I was shocked to discover a familiarish face on an adjacent table. It was that bald bloke who used to play for Southampton. Without a second thought I approached him and politely enquired “Excuse me mate, are you David Armstrong?” “Yes”, he replied. And that was that.

Footballers are strange looking creatures in the flesh. We see them regularly at the match, they’re on the telly constantly and appear plastered across huge billboards advertising whatever stuff they’re paid to advertise. It all builds up a sense of familiarity that is only dispelled when meeting them in real life.

I realised this for the first time after stumbling across Robbie Savage whilst doing the weekly shop a while back. What a weird looking bugger that lad is, the narrowest shoulders and the thinnest arms I’ve ever seen on a man. Now I consider myself a natural athlete and have never felt it necessary to spend even 10 minutes in a gym…but he made my underwhelming frame look like Tarzan in comparison.

A few years ago I bumped into Ole Solskjaer before a gig at the Apollo and was taken aback by how different he looked from how I ‘knew’ him previously. Despite standing 5’10” tall according to Wikipedia, he seemed much smaller…and at risk of sounding all homoerotic about it, his walk alone was enough to set him apart from us mere mortals. No swagger as such, just all lithe and sinewy – he struck me as the sort of bloke who’d make a magnificent diamond thief.

The Premier League today is full of ‘talents’ you could describe as athletes first, footballers second. I’m thinking of players like Glen Johnson or Micah Richards here, limited skills but incredibly well developed athletes who’ve been coached and trained to within an inch of their lives – they have the ability to run up and down for 90 minutes, make bone crunching challenges then do something half decent with the actual ball when the opportunity presents itself. Essentially though, with different guidance and choices – these lads could just as easily be making a living lugging bricks about or playing rugby league.

Wayne Rooney was once hailed as the antidote to players of this ilk filling up Premier League team sheets. Rooney, we were informed, was a resolutely English, Alf Tupperesque throwback to the heroes of yesteryear…an instinctive street footballer raised on egg and chips as opposed to multivitamins and protein shakes. A breath of fresh air and a talent to cherish in a modern game laden with maladroit, muscled freaks. This was the consensus of opinion regarding Rooney the prodigious teenager, however – it can’t really be applied the 26 year old, 2012 version who should by now be approaching his prime.

Rooney’s annus horribilis the season before last and subsequent patchy form last season, (only masked by an exemplary goal return) have led to renewed speculation about his attitude and fitness. Ferguson’s comments (“Wayne is a boy that needs games, you can see that from the frame he’s got”) were innocent enough, but could be interpreted as a timely indication of his private feelings on the matter. Perhaps most tellingly of all, there was no apoplectic Fergie response when his quotes were run by the Mail alongside old pictures of Rooney emerging from the sea whilst on holiday with his similarly ‘big boned’ parents. One is left with the distinct impression that relations between the manager and his star man could be described as ‘strained’ at best.

So Rooney has been left to (ahem) digest all this and in the light of Van Persie’s arrival, faces a potential battle for his place in the team upon regaining form and fitness. Anderson meanwhile, another player with long suspected re-fuelling issues, appears to have abandoned all pretence of being taken seriously and judging by the recent pics posted on his Instagram account, is now experimenting with self-parody.

One might naively expect a player lacking stamina and consistency who’s no longer considered for his national side, to spend the 2 week break putting in some serious shifts at Carrington – possibly attempting to get in peak condition for the season’s resumption. Not Ando, no. Instead he’s having it large in Dubai posting pictures of his dinner on the internet and sporting a shiteating grin that positively screams ‘I don’t give a fuck’. I’ve long lost hope of this clown ever kicking on and fulfilling the promise he held as a teenager – I’ve given up, he’s beaten me and fair play to him. You’ve got to admire the chutzpah of the lad really, despite not being an A grade footballer he’s proven himself to be an international class wind-up merchant.

A player who could never be accused of carrying excess weight is our bequiffed Spaniel in net. Dave De Gea turned in a MOTM performance at Goodison and then (in conjunction with Vidic) followed this up with a spectacular gaffe in the Fulham game. No biggie though, one would have thought, it’s exactly the sort of thing that happens once or twice a season to every keeper. Not according to Ferguson however, who then proceeds to drop him for the Southampton game, happily telling reporters it was all due to the Fulham error and he’d be back in a couple of weeks.

I can’t have been alone in thinking ‘what the fuck?’ at this decision. Last term we only saw the best of De Gea after Lindegaard’s injury had made the keeper selection a no brainer. Constantly switching did nothing to help defensive stability during the early part of the season and only served to highlight his perceived weakness in dealing with crosses – to the extent teams began to target him purposefully. As the season progressed and De Gea’s form and confidence improved, it ceased to be an issue – yet here we are back at square one with the ‘vulnerable young Spaniard’ back in the spotlight. He’s young and he’ll make mistakes, which pretty much everyone accepts…so I fail to see how holding him back and trying to shield him from journeymen cloggers like Rickie Lambert is going to aid his progress.

Due to the Editor’s say-so (those pesky print deadlines again), this article was submitted prior to last weeks game at Anfield. So I’ll conclude by passing on my sincere hopes that the team decided to turn up for the game for the first time in a decade or so and that no reds in attendance felt moved to join in with the fuckwitted #mufcfamily’s call for us to join in with massed, communal singing of ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ in support of the Hillsborough Justice Campaign. We should respect the scousers for their ongoing fight but never lose sight of the fact that in football terms, they remain the enemy.

www.rednews.co.uk

Aftermath

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‘Football…bloody hell!’ Indeed, Sir Alex. After what just a couple of weeks ago promised to be the mother of all celebrations, the aftermath of the 162^nd Manchester derby now sees us surveying a very different kind of carnage than what was hoped for. Eight points clear on Easter Sunday, then by the start of May we’re spreadeagled on the track watching our nearest and bitterest stride towards the finish line. This wasn’t part of the script at all.

The four derby games we’ve played have defined this season. Back in August we had the 2^nd half Charity Shield comeback, providing grounds for optimism as the team gave a demonstration of what they were capable of on their day, and masking numerous deficiencies in the process. The 6-1 then exposed those deficiencies in the most brutal manner possible, leading to a re-think in both tactics and expectations. The FA Cup game arrived off the back of two defeats either side of New Year, saw the return of Scholes and kickstarted a tremendous run that took us to the brink of the title…which set us up nicely for the 4^th clash of the season – a big party at their place, right?

Last night certainly stung but had something of an air of inevitability about it – once the team sheet was in. Having stated pre-match that we were going there for the win (“there’s no question about that”), Park’s selection and the resultant performance clearly indicated that wasn’t the case at all. We went for a draw and ended up with nothing – entirely predictable and an all too familiar scenario.

To be fair to Fergie though, I could see where he was coming from. We don’t have the midfield personnel to play the favoured 4-4-2 against top sides, so a containment job had to be considered. Many would argue that’s it’s almost unforgivable for United to register zero shots on target in a ‘winner takes all’ fixture and in hindsight it probably was the wrong decision to sacrifice the in-form Welbeck…but then we only need look at the last 10 minutes against Everton to see how hopelessly exposed we are against a team capable of incisive and intricate passing.

That’s where we really lost this league of course. 4-2 up and cruising with 7 minutes to go and then everything fell to pieces within minutes. Fingers were pointed at defensive lapses during the post-mortem, with 2 or 3 players culpable perhaps – but from where I was sat there just looked to be a huge void in the midfield area that invited Everton onto us. This is nothing new, and we’ve been overrun in this manner numerous times this season. If we’re going to continue playing with 2 wingers we desperately need a top class central midfield – a fact that has been blindingly obvious for 2-3 years now.

Paul Scholes and Ryan Giggs have been magnificent servants for this club, and will rightly go down in history as two of the greatest ever to appear in shirt. But let’s have this right (and it feels almost sacrilegious pointing this out…but it’s true) – despite rightly earning many plaudits for his encore stint, Scholes is blowing out of his arse after 70 minutes and his time is surely done now. Giggs meanwhile, for the most part of this season, has been bloody awful.

Yet as Monday demonstrated, options remain so limited we are forced to call on this pair time and time again because alternatives don’t exist. Cleverley does still exist it appears, though he spent more of the season introducing Brand Clevz™ to the world than he did furthering his United career. Anderson persists in stinking up the place with his infrequent appearances, the days of him shitting on Fabregas now a dim and distant memory to the extent he now emits only a bad smell – one hopes the management reach the same conclusion and ship him off to some Spanish or Portuguese backwater where his career can continue its decline on someone else’s payroll.

Champion gurner Phil Jones was signed as a centre half and excelled to the point he was prematurely hailed as Duncan reincarnate. Sadly, the coaching staff got a little carried away by his early progress and the kid was subsequently tasked with playing in 15 different positions – often during the same game. He now ends the season that began so promisingly as the new John O’Shea, a jack of all trades and master of none. Great work, United.

Latest rumours suggest the announcement of Darren Fletcher’s retirement could be imminent, so what of the two that were expected to make the breakthrough this season? Ravel Morrison and Paul Pogba, a pair a youth team graduates hailed by regular observers as the best prospects in years. Morrison now finds himself holed up in the East End under the tutelage of Sam Allardyce, and all indications are that Pogba is poised to leave for Juventus.

I wasn’t alone in never quite fully subscribing to the Morrison hype, suspecting his off-field baggage might ultimately hinder his undoubted talent – hopefully the move will prove to be his making both as a player and a man. Pogba’s move, if he indeed does, will be a disappointment though. 12 months ago, having seen a fair bit of him both for both the reserves and the youth team, I thought he looked nailed on to become a 1^st team regular at United – the kid looked like he had everything.

The player I’ve not mentioned is the much-maligned Michael Carrick, who began the season on the crest of an ongoing career slump since bearing the brunt of Fergie’s ire in the fallout of Rome 2009. An extended run of games has seen him recover both form and confidence and he now seems something like the player he was 3 years ago – never the most spectacular and always destined to split opinion, but offers fluidity and consistency in our biggest problem area. A solid 8/10 season, all in all.

Indications are that we’ll see a fair amount of activity during the summer, with a few being shipped out and a few incoming – though don’t hold your breath on any major wedge being spent, obviously. It’ll be farewell Berbs (sob) and Owen (see ya!), Fabio out on loan we already know, hopefully Park and Anderson will be dumped but probably not. As for who to come in, I’ve no idea – though I suspect we’ll spend plenty of time looking at players and thinking about making bids before deciding they don’t represent good value…or fit our ‘ongoing brand exploitation strategy in the light of imminent floatation’ or some such Glazer infused gibberish.

Already this season is being compared to May 1992 or 2005 as one of our modern day low points, though as reality sinks as to what’s occurred – I can’t say the way I’m feeling is comparable to the emotions experienced during either of those two months. Losing the league to Leeds having come so close will never be topped in a football despair sense for me. We had no idea of the success that was just around the corner and it felt like we’d never a single league title, never mind the dozen that were bagged over the next couple of decades.

The financial restrictions that have been in place since the 2005 takeover are the true source of the predicament we find ourselves in today. With 75,000 crowds every other week, millions from TV revenue and merchandising – we should by rights be in a position to take our pick from the greatest football players in the world, not looking on feigning indifference whilst they move to our neighbours as we scour the market for the next Obertan, Diouf or Bebe.

All things considered, I can’t feel too down right now. As stated earlier, events over the last couple of weeks have played out with an air of inevitability about them. We’ve papered over the cracks for a long time and now, finally, reality has caught up and bitten us on the arse. It was always going to happen sooner or later. It stings, but we’ll get over it.

One last thing before I sign off – if you’ve ever used the twitter hashtag #champ20ns, or mugged for the cameras waving a shitty, cardboard sign stating ‘WHY ALWAYS US?’ or given an interview to the press questioning City’s teamspirit when there were still 6 games of the season remaining (HELLO RENE MEULENSTEEN!)…can you give yourself several slaps across the face, please? And now several more?

Enjoy the summer. Or don’t (as the case may be).