FA Cup Final....Chelsea 1 0 Portsmouth

The FA Cup has taken some well documented hits over the years- low crowds, weakened teams, Andy Townsed- but Saturday’s final surely represented a breach of tradition too far. For one thing, there was incident. For another, there was the occasional deviation from the expected narrative. And, as a final capper this was a televised game involving Portsmouth without, unless I missed it, a big screen showcase moment for their loyalist and most attention seeking fan, ‘Mr Portsmouth’. Which has to count for something.

At this point it is fair to bring up 2006’s final between Liverpool and West Ham United, a similarly exciting fixture. Yet my extensive research shows that most don’t consider any finals played in that strange Cardiff era as officially ‘canon’, in the same way Star Wars fans baulk at the ret-conned suggestion that Greedo shot first, and all FA Cup games played there have been accordingly expunged from the record. Which makes the twelve hour journey I made on a toilet less coach to see Newcastle beaten there 4-1 by Manchester United in 2005 feel particularly galling, in retrospect.

An exciting final at Wembley, though? Surely not. And one involving Chelsea? Chelsea, who since 1970 and Leeds, have subjected us to so much Cup Final tedium that they may have well spent the time walking the steps to collect their medals telling us about this amazing dream they had last, right, and we were in it, right, only it wasn’t us, yeah, but they somehow knew it was us? Many were left scrambling around their sofas, their arm chairs and their other associated seating arrangements wondering how to cope.

It wasn’t all bad: there was that lull in the second half just after Chelsea scored, where it was probably safe to slip in a little nap. And, as ever a service for the truly discombobulated, ITV were doing their level best to undermine any entertainment.

It eventually reached levels akin to broadcasting farce when Drogba’s shot crashed off the inside of the bar and on the line. “That’s fifteen seconds it has taken big bad television to say ‘goal’” asserted Tydsley over inconclusive pictures. A hum and a Hah from Jim Belgin later and (Tydlesy): “or, thirty seconds to say no goal.” Synaptic readings by now going a haywire, Clive concluded that we should definitely have video and if it’s unclear- which this was- then the goal shouldn’t be given, which this one wasn’t. Chelsea’s forwards weren’t the only ones miscalculating their angles.

We were offered at halftime that old one about Chelsea being a “lick of paint” away from scoring, which is as almost, in incidents like this, as predictable a response as the calls for video replays. I am never quite certain about this ‘lick of paint’ reasoning. I have always imagined- you’ll correct me if I’m wrong- that the dimensions of the pitch linings are pretty firmly defined by the law book. And, if they aren’t, wouldn’t an extra lick of paint only add to the density of the line and not the width? And, either way, how would that have been to Chelsea advantage, when surely want they needed was a lick of paint subtracted? That’s not a job that’s going to be negotiated without a look through a yellow pages, and a grave warning from a man with a pencil in the side of his mouth that it may be easier to take the whole thing out and start again with a new one.

In a further step away from Cup tradition, there was no doubled over figure complaining of cramp. I always found that cramp added a certain dramatic fission to the end of the final, and it’s disappointing that modern fitness regimes being as they are, the clubs seem to have got a hold of it. Good for them, but I still maintain that my idea to prevent players being struck down with it as the game approaches the ninetieth minute by simply kicking off at ninety minutes and running the clock backwards was a good one.

Still, give and take, and as one tradition erodes, another emerges: John Terry became the seventh hundredth player or manager to complain of Wembley turf dissatisfaction, in the charming and grace filled manner for which he is renowned.

Congratulations to him and to Chelsea, and congratulations to Jim Belgin, who, when commenting that they now have a double “to add to their CV” became the first person in history to equivocate winning a league and cup domestic double with obtaining the Duke of Edinburgh award.

A-Z of Five-a-side football (Part 2).

Impact player- Somebody who turns up ten minutes into the game and makes an immediate impression on it, mainly because nobody is quite sure who he is or where he’s come from, and feel it easier and more polite to let him have an uncontested spell of possession to gauge which team he’s supposed to be playing on, rather than just asking him.

Jostle- A scrappy little passage of play down by the corner, with the ball ricocheting continually between attacker’s shin, defender’s shin and the board around the court, as all three grasp on to each other like doomed shipwreck victims clinging impotently to decking. The simple pass off the board to the keeper is an option largely unconsidered by most defenders- it may well be the most sensible thing to do, but it is also the most cowardly.

Kick about- The strained period of bonding before the game, with players spraying the ball in all directions for an indeterminate amount of time, waiting for somebody to take the initiative and start working out teams. At this early stage, alpha male status is yours to grab. An assertive scooping of the ball, a firm ‘Right, come on then,’ and all that’s left is to bask in your newly found position of peer authority. How long this last depends on how you react to the first strong tackle put in on you- tearing up and complaining that “there’s no need for that; I thought we were meant to be a friends” will quickly see you relegated back into the pack.

Listlessness- Five minutes before the end, with the players waiting to come on after you huddled impatiently by the door, a marked lack of interest sweeps around the court, imparting itself upon everybody bar the most enthusiastic and tediously athletic types. Passes go misplaced, tackles are non-existent. Passes were going misplaced and tackles were non-existent in the previous fifty five minutes too, we should note. But at least then there was a genuine competitive spirit which meant those moments were genuinely frustrating. In the last five minutes all anybody can muster is a theatrical cluck of pretend irritation as the ball scampers away from them, and the odd sneaky glance at their watch. If there isn’t anybody outside waiting to come on next you are left with the horrifying prospect of playing on for appearance’s sake until somebody else suggests leaving. It’s like when the nurses don’t come round to inform you visiting times are over, and you have to pretend to have A) Not noticed, or B) Noticed, but been really pleased about it.

Membership- You will need one of these to book over the phone, as, in the past, several leisure centres have been forced into closure by rogue and membership card-less gangs of criminals scattering bookings across the nation’s five a side courts, which they then proceed to not honour. It’s actually what they eventually ended up getting Al Capone on.

Next goal the winner- A complete abnegation of all that has went before. Some have noted that in may be easier, going forward, to simply keep a mental track of the score, adjusting it accordingly as the game progresses. Like, you know, like they do in real football. But that would be all but impossible to referee in five a side, where players have been known to casually subtract a few goals from the opposition’s tally and carry them over to their own without blinking an eye or even mentioning it to anybody else.

Offside- This rule is naturally not applicable in five a side, just as it was never applicable to Arsenal when Thierry Henry played for them. But as many on the court try to emulate to Henry’s finishing, his footwork and, when they think nobody’s looking, his prowess with a palm, so others try to emulate the flailing defenders so often left in his wake, putting up their arms in a curious mix of desperation and haplessness, appealing for the enforcement of a rule that doesn’t even exist.

Post match analysis- This segment of the day can prove just as troublesome and divisive as the game itself. As disparate groups split- often, as testament to how little they know each other, with nothing more than a gruff ‘good game, lads’-, you will immediately be presented with the dilemma of wanting to bring up your best bits to friends but in as casual a way as possible. For their part, your friends will do everything in their power to not remember at all the time when you drifted inside the defender before unleashing an unstoppable thunderbolt into the top corner. But they will, happily, be capable of ably recalling the moment you trod on the ball with only the goalkeeper to beat. Such tricks of memory will lead to your post match pint being offset by dark, brooding introspection.

Newcastle United 2 Nottingham Forest 0

Some weeks ago two Newcastle United players- both of whom have represented England in the past- were heavily alleged to have been involved in a fight that left one of them with a broken jaw. An unsavoury incident and one which, knowing our football club, seemed perfectly capable of derailing our promotion chances- which given the two characters involved, and the stories emerging about both of them, was about as much concern as most could muster about the incident.

Faced with this dilemma, Chris Hughton, a man only managing Newcastle United himself because of a series of unsavoury and otherwise alleged incidents, responded with consideration and tact, refusing to answer questions on the subject, generally being professional and calm in the face of sneaky muck raking, the type of muck raking which, in the past, has seen our managers fall gormlessly into the hands of the press and their various agendas, and served to exacerbate the drama, leading to all manner of recriminations and raised voices and loud, slamming doors. So, well played Chris...

...Except, no, not according to everybody. Louise Taylor, of the Guardian and formally of the official Sunderland AFC magazine, has been taking tedious issue with our manager ever since, almost as if she has her own reasons for wishing to denigrate and undermine Newcastle United’s promotion push. Having watched the Sunderland game on Sunday- with Turner, Cana and Richardson putting an interesting spin on the concept of playing football, almost using it as an abstract concept and a starting point for something else completely- I simply can’t imagine what those reasons may be.

If her plan was to disrupt our players’ confidence and unity then her spiteful campaign was a hugely visible failure. As evidenced by the mass pile on that greeted our second goal- Enrique’s first ever for the club- our players only ever read the Guardian for Ben Goldacre’s science columns, and Polly Toynbee on a Tuesday. And the first, Ameobi’s spin and finish from just inside the area, was the result of a concentrated and composed seventy minutes of patient approach play- pass and move, give and go- that aligned with a vocal, passionate and fully united home crowd was always likely to yield something against a mobile and pretty, but ultimately toothless, Forest side.

Two wins needed, now, or we could be up by Saturday if Bristol City go and do us a favour. Danny Baker has been talking all season about the perils of declaring ‘nothing can go wrong now’ during football matches. So I won’t be doing that just yet. But considering what would have to go wrong to deny us promotion and that party on the last day at Loftus Road (I think, knowing how much us thick Geordies love one, the theme should be ‘messiahs’- I’ll be in the robes and thorns, being lectured by somebody dressed as Richards Dawkings), you would have to conclude that it’s all over bar the shouting and bar me being asked to leave the pub nearest Shepherd’s Bush for trying to perform a Cuban Cha Cha with a nearby pool cue.

Nobody expected this when we were getting beaten 6-1 at Orient in Pre Season. (Hey, serious question as I was avoiding the sports press at that time for obvious reasons: did anybody use punning Agatha Christie reference in the write ups of that game? Missed a trick if they didn’t.) And before the inevitable shit storm next season, we should take a second to recognise the job that Chris Hughton has done all season in the face of some incredible asks.

I did notice that, with the crowd signing his name on Monday, he gave it the full hands clasped together, arms raised salute in response. Compared to his reticent, almost forced, acknowledgement of the fans when he heard his name chanted earlier in the season, it felt like a nice moment for him and for us. And knowing how irked it would have left Louise Taylor made it feel all the nicer.

Wag Weekly...Kimberley Mills

Almost all of the online literature dedicated to her seems to regard Kimberley Mills as the only Wag yet to “cash in on her boyfriend’s fame.” Thought about logically for a moment, taking a second to estimate how many professional footballers there are in the country and how likely any of these players are likely to be celibate, this line is absolute nonsense. But one thing you learn reading these sites is how keen we are to damn Wags with feint, and often patronising, praise. For my part, I should probably point out that I think Mills has lovely hair. Very shiny.

Shy of publicity as she is, she has restricted her appearances to procedural ones- the Royal occasions it would have been impolite, and detrimental to the nation’s spirits, to have avoided. So, naturally, we were able to catch a glimpse of her on Nuts TV’s ‘Real Footballers’ Wives’. What I love best about that is the title of the show suggesting, as it seems to, that an overly cautious producer somewhere has done their best to ensure no confusion. Always nice when television types think to make the distinction between fiction and non-fiction for their viewers, and put it right up there in the opening credits.

She is engaged (possibly- nobody seems sure) to David Bently, widely regarded as a sort of rubbish version of David Beckham (even his name sounds vaguely like a store’s own brand knock off), which, since about 2007 and his move to L.A Galaxy, has made two of them.

The A-Z of 5-a-side Football (Part 1)

‘Aaaaaargh’: Noise of frustration made by a player who has just over hit a pass, or put a shot wide. Usually exclaimed by the player in the Barcelona Messi shirt, it is done to suggest that the previous passage of play was deeply uncharacteristic, and that his shirt doesn’t usually look this ironic.

‘Back’: With the ball at your feet, your natural inclination will be to take it on a bending run, leaving floundering defenders in your wake, and riffling it into the top corner. Teammates with a clearer view of how the game’s developing may suggest a more pragmatic approach: a humbling shifting of momentum and a dreary rolled pass backwards. The even more hurtful suggestion of ‘back to keeper’ is usually followed up with the base covering caveat ‘if you need it’. The subtext: you do.

Celebrating: Strictly forbidden in the five a side arena. The psychology of this works on a similar basis to the idea that suggests people will think you have done more sexually if you talk about it less. This should not be a new experience for you, and the proper way to acknowledge a goal is to trudge back with your eyes downward, periodically raising your head to display your unsmiling face. Some squinting is permissible, but not so much that it becomes excessive.

Defending: Easier to feign than attacking, and such is the chaotic pace of the game, sticking a lethargic foot out as an opposition player approaches you may actually see you emerge with possession. No sliding tackles allowed, as if you were planning on one anyway.

Edge of the box: A starkly defined area of the court, players being forbidden from entering the box at the risk of conceding a penalty, or, judging by the desperate lengths some go to in order to avoid it, opening the gates of hell, letting loose the evil powers from within and becoming the subject of an oft regurgitated internet urban legend. Drawn as a semi circle, which means defenders have to make daintily curved runs around it, watching their steps like a shot putter and generally feeling a bit silly.

Five: The number of players meant to be on each side- a nice conceit but one usually thrown into turmoil when Spuggsy bring his little brother with him, and Jamie’s mates from last week show up again. Finding space becomes a problem, with angry 50-50 clashes breaking out all over the place, and that’s just queuing for a drink at the vending machine beforehand. The game itself is less a fast paced exercise in short passing and ball control, and more a mass of flailing limbs and sharp, elbowed points. Teammates tackle each other, strangers- referring to each other solely through generic terms like ‘mate’ and ‘bud’- find themselves paired up together in central defence. It’s as near an experience to playing for West Ham United you’re going to get for twenty five quid, a booking fee and a deposit. The fact that the game only lasts sixty minutes, and not ninety, means it’s the closest you’re going to get to storming out of Upton Park early too.

Goalkeeper: Outside of Nike’s Zoom T-7 indoor trainers, and a pair of ankle guards, the most desirable piece of equipment on the five a side court is a goalkeeper- you should probably be able to find a decent second hand one on Ebay- or, failing that, at Portsmouth- and it’s certainly a worthwhile investment. Sans Goalkeeper, your team will be forced to operate a hectically organised rolling system, each member taking it in stroppy turns to mind nets, only freed from responsibility on the concession of a goal. Such a system is pervious to corruption, of course, and every goal will be greeted with dark suspicion and accusatory glances from team mates not altogether convinced that you aren’t in devious cahoots with the opposition to limit your time on the centre provided crash mats.

Head Height: A rule designed to encourage ball control and fast play, although usually pettily used to punish a player who deflects the ball somewhere above the knee area. One problem with the head height rule is nobody is ever sure which head to use as the benchmark height, nor what would happen should the player selected choose to perform a cunning handstand with an opposition striker bearing down on goal. Appealing for enforcement of the rule is generally regarded as bad form and should be left to your team’s captain. (I.E, the member of your team who remembered to book the court this week.)

Wag Weekly....Yulia Arshavin

People not at work during the day for whatever reason- maybe they’re unemployed, or students or Liverpool’s Albert Riera- have two options to help them waste away the hours: Sky Sports News or double bills on the Paramount comedy channel. You can watch one, or the other, but to watch both would feel vaguely perverse. And as you’re all football fans, it seems likely that any reference to Dharma and Gregg- a show designed with the daytime television watcher in mind, almost hypnotic in its capability to generate a hollowed out self loathing in the soul of the viewer- would be largely lost on you. So you’re just going to have to take my word for it when I say that Mr and Mrs Arshavan are truly the Dharma and Greg of The footballer and their Wags world.

Andrei plays the Greg role, all straight laced and old fashioned conservatism, he is on record as saying that all women should be banned from driving “because they are too dangerous.” (As opposed, presumably, to professional footballers, whose collective road safety record is unblemished.) Yulie is Dharma: baggy clothing and sass, she thinks that the English are “too reserved.” Well, when the choice is that or being put out on loan at Bolton Wanderers or Mk Dons you can hardly blame us, dear. She also thinks the country is “dull,” and the food “sub-standard.” (In fairness, when I first read that quote I assumed she was talking about a ham and turkey six incher, all the salad and on traditional Italian white- so she might have a point on the issue of our unimaginative pallets.)

An avid blogger, Arshavin has since “prohibited his wife from talking about England.” It’s strange, because I remember watching his performance against Holland in 2008 and declaring him my favourite ever footballer- I handed over my season ticket renewal form at St. James’ Park later that week with a quip about hoping the money would be getting put towards signing him. (In a moment that has since proven symbolically, and horrifyingly, apt, the ticket office lady had never heard of him.) But technology has caught up with us once again, it seems, and just as they say you should never meet your heroes, nor it would appear, to be on the safe side, should you ever read their blog either.

P.Alace

To a generation of rap listeners P.Diddy is just an attention seeking irritant, one who cravenly latches on to more talented artists, appearing in their videos and peppering their songs with distracting ad-libs in a cheap bid to further his own profile and massage his own ego. But to others...no, come to think about it, he’s probably that to most generations of rap listeners. And some non-rap listeners too.

To this date his sole achievement is his close relationship with the late Notorious B.I.G. It’s certainly easy to see why the pair got along: Biggie was witty, verbose, multi-talented, and liked Versace sunglasses. Puffy, too, liked Versace sunglasses. Together, the pair were at the forefront of the mid nineties bling era-an era that stood largely true to the ‘two turntables and a mic’ ethos, but also threw in, for good measure, some diamond encrusted shiny suits, an indoor swimming pool and, more often than not, a remix featuring Jodeci.

To this sole achievement, could we be set to add another? Certainly, few could have expected Crystal Palace to find, so soon, an owner even more annoying than Simon Jordan.

His interest in the club, which was confirmed by his ‘people’ in the week, seemed to come as a surprise to many of the country’s sporting press, maybe shocked he was prepared to personally invest in something that is so obviously a lost cause. They were obviously unaware of his producing and marketing duties on the upcoming Joaquin Phoenix rap album. (“As yet unreleased,” notes Wikipedia, with a hearting air of optimism.) This is not a music mogul easily deterred by what others think, nor one cursed with overly sensitive critical facilities.

Besides which, was the Diddy/Palace alliance not forever destined, written even? Not written by the same team of ghostwriters that penned for Diddy such hits as ‘I'll Be Missing You’ (for my money- and, knowing Puffy, a large slice of my publishing and royalties too- the single worst song ever made) and the other one, That One with Usher in the Video. But, rather, written by the stars and the fates.

Consider: the year is 1995, and Puff, in attendance at that year’s Source award, is called out in everything but name by West coast music head, and owner of Death Row records, Suge Knight, sparking a bicoastal rivalry that will span over two years, ending in the tragically early demise of two of the industry’s brightest talents, 2pac and Biggie Smalls. At the same time, as part of a bit of a shake up to accommodate smaller numbers the following season, Palace become the fourth team to be relegated from that year’s Premiership. To paraphrase Chris Rock: Malcolm X got assassinated, 2pac and Biggie got shot, and Alan Smith got invited to leave Selhurst Park and pursue the recently vacated managerial spot at Wycombe Wanderers.

Some years later, and with the millennium approaching, Palace bring back Steve Coppell, who does a fine job in keeping the cash strapped club away from the reaches of further demotion. Meanwhile, over in New York, Diddy, along with his girlfriend Jennifer Lopez, is involved in an altercation in a night club, leading to a shooting for which his artist, Shyne, is eventually found guilty of instigating and sentenced to ten years in a maximum security penitentiary for. The trouble allegedly started when a club goer threw money at Puffy’s feet, in an ostentatious display of wealth- “we’ve all got money,” he is reported to have said.

You can’t help but feel, though, that the display would have been even more effective as a fiscally wasteful gesture had the club goer thought, as Palace had earlier in the year, to bring Terry Venables in as manager in a heavily publicised appointment. Though it’s probably fair to guess the point was to demonstrate that, no matter how much money any one of us may have, we’re all in a metaphorical gutter staring at the stars- and that’s not an argument the necessarily caters for the extra stresses brought about by administration and point deductions, nor the understandable concerns regarding Terry Venables and having to put with him.

Undeniable, though, surely, that the two were always, somehow, intrinsically and spiritually, linked. And now, fingers crossed, financially. What can Palace fans, and new manager Paul Hart, expect? We wait in hushed expectation. The first move will be to invite Diddy to join us in our hushed expectation, with the emphasis, ideally, very much on the ‘hushed’ bit.