Weekend Review (23rd-24th October)

The Rooney chit chat accompanied us deep in to the weekend and one could usually establish any one commentator’s general view by studying their noun usage. At various points, Manchester United’s manager was a revered ‘Sir Alex Ferguson’, a familiar ‘Alex’, or a chummy ‘Fergie’. Rooney was usually a formal ‘Rooney’ though a few ventured towards a ‘Wayne’ delivered with just the right hint of detached concern, like they were discussing a child of their friend who has just dropped out of college. The coverage of the story has been excessive but by far the more irritating trend of the weekend was various phone in hosts adopting world weary tones and begging for a change of topic as they wanted to talk about something else, as if the option to instigate conversation about something else were one not open to them.

The pithiest comment came from the advertising boards placed around Stoke’s Britannia Stadium: “compromise is not an option,” they said (advertising Sky’s 3D service, and wisely stopping short of confirming that not wearing those glasses that make you look really silly is also not an option). You certainly don’t have to tell the Glazer family that, the particulars of Rooney’s new contract apparently stipulating the actual names of players he wants signed over the next few years. Though some solace for them probably came in the shape of the long distance phone call to Rooney’s home where most of this was sorted out, which they were probably sensible enough to leverage against the costs of his goal bonuses and cigarette expenses.

All the negative talk of Rooney seemed to centre on him being a bit of a baby. Which is not only to simplify the situation but also overlook how joyful it can be to see footballers act like big kids. Two great examples at the weekend: Van Der Vaart giving the ball landing at his feet inches from goal a giant wellying in a manner which would have, had their game against Everton been played without nets, led to an argument between striker and a goalkeeper angered at seeing it hit such an unnecessary distance about with whom the responsibility lay for its collection. You know like when the strikers in a rush to restart the game and rushes to pick up the ball before the goalkeeper does- the opposite of that. And Stoke’s Tuncay pretending not to notice Man United were planning a short corner in favour of hovering around the near post looking busy: a move he lifted directly out of my formative years’ playbook. Sorenson’s angered clip suggested he was taking the role of my unsettlingly aggressive P.E teacher- though at least he was gloved and most won’t still be appearing in marked anxiety dreams years down the line.

And there was a lot of talk about offside, because Ronaldo used one little known aspect of the rule to his advantage for Real Madrid, leading Andy Gray to decry ‘these so called laws’, in the process taking the usage of the phrase ‘so called’ to a point from which it’s hard to see it ever properly returning. At no point during that phase of Gray’s analysis should the term have ever been deemed active. Unless, of course, Andy would rather have us refer to the grounding principles that underpin every game of association football to the same code by something that rolls easier off the tongue. Last Monday night he demonstrated the key tenants of a bad challenge on Richard Keys’ shins, this week he was going in unreasonably hard on the English language. Keys, sensibly perhaps, thought better of tackling him on his point.

Newcastle United 6 (wooh...) Aston Villa 0

Football gives you this type of game four, maybe five, times a life time. When the performance exceeds your expectations is one thing, when everything falls for you another. You get both these things and you’re on to a winner. But rarely does football gift you such a delicious choice of opposition. There is only one club this game could have been any sweeter for having being played against and Sunderland at least had their reasons for revelling in our relegation.

Fifteen months ago we were traumatised at Villa Park as our downfall was confirmed; the loathing for every player and the people in charge just about matched by our loathing of the home fans who had taken it upon themselves to be the personification of the national sneers directed at our supporters. The most famed picture of that day is a witless banner aimed at our fans asking who our next messiah was going to be. Ooh, I don’t know lads, is Martin O Neil free? “We’ll meet again” got an airing too and they were right- though given how much they were looking forward to it, it seemed a bit odd to wander off without even saying goodbye with half an hour of this game left to play.

There was tremendous spite in the air at St. James’ Park yesterday. I have complained for years about how critical and picky our fans can be with our players arguing that if it were instead transferred to the opposition it could form the basis of a home crowd truly capable of being a genuine positive influence. Yesterday this happened and, not merely responsive, the players seemed complicit in it; never dirty, but mean and steely eyed, clearly as determined as we were to make a point.

And then you consider that, along with the team spirit and attitude being spot on, some of our players are really good. Jose Enrique, for example. Enrique is a player who doesn’t always do the easy thing in the dopey manner of the timid defender adept at conceding needless set pieces in awkward areas, or the elaborate thing is the manner of a lily livered ditherer too precious to put his foot through the ball, but always, always does the right thing. His decision making is as sharp as Paul the octopus’ and his timing so immaculate that were he writing this report he would surely have refrained from such a hackneyed and dated Paul the Octopus reference. I’m a bit in love with him.

Williamson looks the part- full of busy and strong in the tackle- and is forming a neat little partnership with Collocini, Perch was much improved from his poor game on Monday night and Smith, Barton and Nolan were superb. Even Xisco put a shift in when he came on. And there was Andy Carroll- he looks the real deal doesn’t he? Inventive and bright throughout, always working always looking for the ball, he took all three goals excellently. Emile Heskey’s mournful performance (wherein he came on and then fell over and then it was full time) seemed to be showcasing something about an international passing of the baton, one which could have utilised Richard Dunne as a conduit if only he’d managed to get within baton passing distance of our number nine at any point during the game.

As for Villa? Oh dear. Trouble ahead for them, they could even, if they’re not careful, do a Newcastle. Certainly if they hire Gareth Southgate or Bob Bradley as coach then problems loom. The motivation for the Southgate speculation- his time there as a player- is reasonable enough, the talk of Bradley- his shared nationality with their owner- less assured. If being American is the requisite, Lerner should have seen me if the after the fifth goal yesterday, running up and down the stairs collecting high fives like a good ‘un. I’d be grateful for the opportunity to give managing them a shot; you’re darn tootin’ we’ll bastard well meet again.

Weekend Review (First Day)

“They shouldn’t have too much trouble if they’re only playing Young Boys,” said Andy Gray over a visual trail for Spurs’ mid week Champions’ League qualifier, wisely eschewing the other obvious joke about the tie as already made by everybody on the internet, and in the process marking our theme for the day: youth, and the fading of it.

A new Sky Premiership season and Andy’s feeling his age. There were already hints being dropped with his bitter World Cup ruminations- holding midfielder players and the Jabulani bearing his wrath- and when he refused to get with Ian Darke’s down with the kids lingo about Joe Hart’s ‘showreel’, referring instead to a stuffily old fashioned ‘scrapbook’, it was apparent we weren’t going to be discussing Radio 1’s weekend in Ayia Napa or the new Iphone anytime soon with our co-commentator.

Accordingly the reminiscing began- Darke and Gray taking a wistful look back to their first Monday night together, not spent at the picture house or the local disco hall, but at Maine Road watching Andy Sinton snatch QPR’s goal in a 1-1 draw. People weren’t scared to be romantic in those days. After spending the summer being reminded by Sky on how important those Monday night fixtures were for the mood and well being of the nation it felt only right and proper to spend much of the weekend bathed in nostalgia. It certainly took me back- was it only February this year I watched Wigan beat Liverpool at the DW stadium on a Monday night? March actually.

Speaking of Wigan: away from self-aggrandisement, Sky’s story of the weekend was Blackpool, comprehensive winners at the DW stadium; or rather their story was Kian Kelly, young Blackpool fan pictured after the game celebrating on his dad’s shoulders. It was a nice image, but Sky wanted more so said child and father were packed up and delivered to Blackpool’s training ground where the child, with his older brother looking on, was presented with a ticket for Saturday’s match at Arsenal. Heart warming stuff for everybody but Kian’s older brother, who looked a bit miffed at not getting a ticket himself and though one done one’s best to enjoy the joy of young Kian, one could not help but imagine the tense scene about to take place during the car journey home. Sky may consider all of this feel good fluff now, but how long such bonhomie survives in the face of several anxious calls to their publicity department regarding the possibility of securing an additional child’s ticket for Saturday’s fixture remains to be seen.

This isn’t all they’ve been talking about in Blackpool. Over on the BBC, Robbie Savage continues his very hardest to be ‘straight talking’- mistaking, in the manner famed by various Big Brother contestants over the years, obnoxiousness for ‘just being honest’- and, after one argument with an aggrieved Blackpool fan, advised the caller he could go to the pub and tell all his friends he’d slagged off Robbie Savage. Suddenly his presence on the show seemed a little less inexplicable. I had thought that (the very good) Mark Champman’s confessing to a secret liking for Craig Bellamy after hearing an interview with him on BBC had been designed as a cryptic clue as to what was being done with Savage’s public image here- a sort of remoulding of a bombastic, much loathed figure in to a loveable roughish type in the manner of a Chris Evans or a Reggie Kray. Instead, he is on board to help one of the nation’s flagging industries- if the idea is that anybody who feels inclined to criticise ‘Sav’ after hearing him on 606 should invite their friends to the local club that evening to tell them about it, then the previously moribund pub trade will soon be booming again and notices of its demise premature- unlike similar notices about 606’s.

Rooooooooney....

Walking off the pitch at the end of England’s game against Algeria- a disappointingly drawn game in which he played particularly poorly- Wayne Rooney took the time to deliver a video message to the fans. You’ve probably heard about it; I imagine a few of the newspapers mentioned it.

“Nice to see your home fans boo you. That's what loyal support is” he said and, yeah, good shout, Wayne. I mean that literally, too. In a tournament where it had been previously assumed impossible to even hear oneself about the drone of the Vuvuzeleas, even his toughest critics would be forced to concede that getting your words heard by the 21.3 million people ITV report were watching on Friday night is some achievement, even taking into account how many of those 21.3 million would have already switched channels by the time of Wayne’s to camera piece so as to avoid bumping into James Corden.

Rooney has evidently put a lot of thought in to getting his message heard, which is to his credit. Would, though, that he put similar thought in to the crafting of the message itself. For one thing, ‘home fans’? Wayne, you’re playing in South Africa- it’s going on 6000 miles from ‘home’. Even when they talked of you being miles off the pace afterwards, I don’t think they meant that many miles. Secondly, it seems disappointing to be resorting to that horary old crutch, that peculiarly English comedy device, sarcasm, so early in the competition. It’s hard to imagine a Kaka or a Messi using such base wit when finding a camera at the end of a World Cup fixture- those lads seem more comfortable on the camera, more adroit and cavalier, always have a trick up the same sleeve Rooney probably keeps his written speech just in case he forgets anything- and even the French, not a team without their own problems at this tournament, have demonstrated a certain imagination in their insults that seemed beyond England’s brightest hope. Is this a problem with coaching? Should our lads be being taught to just get out there and enjoy their spittle leaden monologues from an early age, with less pressure on hitting marks and not treading on the feet of any ball boys in the vicinity handing out the energy drinks?

Further, to whom was the message addressed? His anger was visible and clearly meant for those in the stadium. But they couldn’t hear him. So presumably we were expected to relay his thoughts to them somehow, via, one can only conclude, people we know who’ve travelled out there. That’s going to put a strain on the old phone bill isn’t it? I suppose Wayne can be forgiven this oversight, given that he thought the game was being played at Wembley. But, even so, next time it would surely be easier for everybody were he to nip out during the second half and ask the people operating the P.A system if they wouldn’t mind squeezing his message in between the safety guidelines and the happy birthdays. It’s not like anybody would have missed him on the pitch and, as a bonus, he would have been able to extend his best wishes- and those of the rest of the squad- to the gaffer on his sixty fourth. But I suppose that way we’re back again to concerns regarding sarcasm and additional concerns, in this instance, of how well it translates.

And can I just make the suggestion that if our role in this exchange was the vital cog that transferred it from the speaker to its audience that he may want to consider his tone? Not shooting the messenger is a phrase usually only employed upon delivery of said message, something for the recipient to consider; the sender of the message usually needs no such advice with most realising that such an action would demonstrate, if nothing else, gross inefficiency.

He’s apologised for the statement, through the more stuffy method of a press release, which disappointed those among us who wanted the entire saga to play out, serial style, through a series of similarly shot post match reflections. He probably reasoned that the air time couldn’t take the strain of the narrative, which seems sensible given England’s performances thus far and how decent Slovenia look- one more thirty second slot was hardly likely to incorporate a proper storyline and character development. And such non development from Rooney would have felt, for the viewer, dramatically unsatisfying, no matter how symbolically apt.

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.