Look Away Now... Live!

Live blog coverage from Look Away Now. All the major incidents… as they happen!

11:21 Good morning everyone. Welcome to the first ever day of live coverage from Look Away Now. We'll be bringing you all the breaking news from your favourite blog as you go about your daily business. Eating a bagel? Too busy to read a whole thousand or so words? Fear not. Look Away Now will be… hang on a second.

11:24 Sorry about that, really needed a wee.

11:25 Where was I? Ah yes... Look Away Now will be bringing you live, unedited progress of its latest blog entry. Lucky you.

11:27 Don't forget, you too can get involved with our coverage today. Drop us text at the usual number, or get in touch via Twitter. This is all for you, remember.

11:32 Now then, down to business. Most of you reading this will be fans of what we lovingly term 'the beautiful game', following its highs and lows with anything from casual interest to rabid fetishism. But whatever your level of indulgence, the internet is here at your fingertips to drip feed you the knowledge you crave.

11:39 Now while the internet isn't exactly an exciting new dawn, I've been pondering one phenomena in particular, that of live text-based coverage – rolling, minute-by-minute, bite-sized accounts of various aspects of the game, be it a particular match, an impending transfer deadline or, as we witnessed recently, the voting procedure for a major event.

11:46 As a symbol of the footballing world getting smaller, you'd be hard pressed to find a better example. In many ways, 'as-it-happens' coverage has become the 21^st century equivalent of staring through the window of Curry's on a Saturday afternoon trying to catch a glimpse of 'Final Score'. But what is the essence of this thing that makes us crave the interaction it provides?

@anfield_face_ache via Twitter: “The thing about live updates are that they bring me closer to what is really happening out there. It makes us deadhead plebeians feel accepted and wanted by the wider world, like our opinions actually matter or something. Which, of course, they don’t. Hodgson out!”

11: 53 BREAKING NEWS: Introduction Finished

Some solid work there after a shaky start (see 11:24). Let’s hope things heat up a little as the day progresses...

12:01 Feeling a bit peckish to be honest. Off to see what’s in the fridge… back soon.

12:04 Bacon! Result. Looks like sandwich time…

12:15 In one sense, providing interactive accounts of footballing matters as they occur is just an extension of good old-fashioned football journalism. Things happen and they're reported on – simple as that. What we're witnessing is an example of the narrowing of time and space as we perceive it, a notion synonymous with so may facets of our experience of the modern world, what social theorist David Harvey termed “time-space compression”. The sandwich was excellent, by the way.

@Redknapp’s Pocket Money via Twitter: “You know what I would have gone for on that bacon sandwich? Ketchup. Ketchup is clearly the only sauce up to the job.”

Sorry RPM, no dice. Brown sauce on bacon, ketchup on chips. That’s the rule. Always. Thanks for reading!

12:20 As mentioned a couple of months ago in this blog, the court case surrounding Liverpool's ultimately successful buyout by the NESV Group was given the live treatment, showing that this type of account has moved beyond the purely sporting. In recent weeks, the Guardian website has been offering an up-to-the-minute account of reaction to the Wikileaks scandal, in which thousands of diplomatic memos were unleashed online, with potentially grave/liberating consequences (depending on your political persuasion). This is as good an example as any of the rapidly altering nature of news reporting, with breaking details handed over in something scarily approaching real time.

12:25 The major problem is that once the template has been set, what happens when relevant information is suddenly at a premium? During a match itself there will always be a talking point: some minute tactical adjustment, say, which will add to the mental picture which the coverage is attempting to sketch in the reader's mind. But it's tougher to apply the same measure of intricate detail when events are reported third or even fourth-hand: a player heading for a medical or a vote being counted, for example; occurrences passed from reporter to reporter, then eventually to us. It's here that, for me, live coverage begins to lose some of its charm.

12:32 Suddenly found myself with a touch of writer's block. I'm not worried though.

12:40 I’m bored. Dangerously bored. Nothing much on the TV today. Whatever happened to 'Working Lunch'? Remember the goldfish in the title sequence? Wonder what happened to that little guy.

12:48 OK, starting to get a little worried now...

From JohnnyCroptop via text: “'Working Lunch' was cancelled in July 2010, replaced on BBC2 by 'GMT with George Alagiah'. Status of goldfish: unknown.”

This is the kind of feedback I’m looking for, people. Keep it up!

13:03 With the chance of actual action drying up, one of the key ingredients when it comes to knocking up some top-quality live coverage soup is a generous helping of reader interaction. Whilst admittedly occasionally responsible for some interesting remarks or thoughts, what this essentially amounts to is several hours of 140 character-based pub banter. Not that I’m anti-banter. On the contrary, I’ve engaged in it several times and I will openly admit that I’m a fan. But when it comes down to it, perhaps what I’m looking for from this type of interactive sports coverage is something approaching informed debate. Maybe I'm looking for too much, especially when most of the feedback is coming from people using such suspect monikers as “Rooney’s Fat Wallet”, “Captain Gooner” or “Henry Winter”.

13:04. Actually, that’s probably just Henry Winter.

13:09 But my point remains and, in stating as much, maybe I’ve accidentally stumbled across a wider angle of discourse. The internet, as a forum for discussion and debate, is clearly unparalleled and as such can easily be seen to have, if not replaced, then provided an attractive alternative to, more traditional methods of footballing discourse.

@Captain_Gooner via Twitter: “You got a problem with me, mate?”

Nope, no problem at all. Sorry C_G.

13:21 When ready-to-go material runs out, users are encouraged to create their own – be it via opinions, quips or rumours (see 13:03) – making live coverage a furthering of the do-it-yourself, user-generated content area of online culture. From Facebook and YouTube to blogs such as the one you're reading right now, content becomes inclusive by the very fact that it is created by those using it. However, the inevitable side effect of such a modus operandi is that the quality will fluctuate. Yet it occurs to me that what drives this forward isn't a desire for high quality product, but rather a want to be part of the process, to further incubate the notion that football is the property of the consumer – the fan – and should be theirs to celebrate and object to whenever and however they see fit. They say that football is a game of opinions, and this rings truer today than ever before.

@fickle_online_content_generator via Twitter: “Some interesting thoughts there, but how about a pop-culture reference or two to go with them?”

13:34 The Jam famously sang that the public gets what the public wants, a comment on the nature of workaday existence, and the easily-consumable product required for people to get on and get through, the sustenance needed to tame the ennui. With football more popular today than at any point in history, it could be argued that this sort of blow-by-blow coverage is simply satiating a prevailing need – to know and to be involved, perhaps to an almost voyeuristic level. The difference now is that we have the means to make it happen – a means that, once employed, will self-perpetuate its own importance.

13:38 Of course Weller and co also sang that the public wants what the public gets. If we didn't have this kind of coverage, would we miss it? Probably not, but you could justifiably say the same of any particular form, genre or item of popular entertainment out there.

From SusieTheHammer via text: “Hi Look Away Now, was gr8 meeting you at The Horse & Spatula last nite. We shud hook up, give me a call sumtime xx”

Er, hi Susie. Kinda busy right now... I'll be in touch x.

13:41 I probably won't be in touch.

13:43 Maybe what it does provide that cannot be knocked is the interaction it allows with the providers themselves. Twitter, as well as blogs of varying authorship, readership and standing, allow us unprecedented access to the minds of those giving us our information, but the as-it-happens phenomenon neatly formats this into something approaching actual conversation – a live chat, if you will, not with friends and family, but rather with those upon whom we rely for our football news and views. You could surely argue that this, on some level, keeps things healthy and honest, a move towards cleaning the filter through which all news, footballing or otherwise, is presented.

@stop_taking_things_so_seriously via Twitter: “But 'Cheesey', 'Stevo' and their ilk don't really have an agenda to push, do they? Surely they're just enjoying a bit of a chat whilst providing a much-loved service?”

13:48 That's a fair point. Football, like all good, (mostly) progressive things in life, has done its best to keep up with the needs of its clientèle. In terms of the fan experience we've seen the continued betterment of stadia and TV access (if you can afford them), but we've also witnessed a grassroots rising, the relentless ascent of the website and the forum, the phone-in and the FanZone, the blog and the podcast. In terms of being a further offering for enjoyment of the game on an interactive level, live coverage undoubtedly succeeds. Within the context of a world of increasingly impersonal social interactions, while it feeds off of this need, it at least does its best to feel friendly and inclusive in the process, two characteristics only a fool would attempt to discourage, whatever the subject or setting.

13:53 Time to start wrapping things up...

13:57 Well that's it folks, we're drawing towards the end of our coverage. I do hope you've enjoyed yourselves – thanks to all our tweeters and texters for making this a (hopefully) worthwhile experience. We'll be back sometime after Christmas... in the meantime, take care.

13:59 Forgot to put the wash on. ****.

~ Matt

A Very Competitive Profession: Big Sam's Winter Of Discontent

Following the breadwinner’s shock dismissal from his most recent outpost in Blackburn, it looks like being a cold white Christmas in the Allardyce household this year. I'm speaking in terms of employment, of course - I'm sure Waitrose will still be delivering a decent sized turkey, and you'd imagine iPhone 4s for the kids won't exactly be out of the question - certainly not if that position in Madrid he's been after pans out. Still, losing your job on the eve of Christmas (not to be confused with Christmas Eve) must be a wrench. I've never experienced it myself, for which I'm grateful, but I would imagine that for those who have, the fairylights probably glow just that little bit dimmer. Especially if you can't afford the electricity bill. 

Sam Allardyce has always been something of a managerial puzzle box. Infamous for his supposed inclination towards what some would generously term 'agricultural' tactics, he nevertheless remains the only manager in history to successfully mould Youri Djorkaeff and Paul Warhurst into the same midfield. By the same token, Blackburn Rovers, his now former employers, are themselves something of an oddity of the modern footballing age; the only team outside the holy trinity of Manchester United, Arsenal and Chelsea to lift the Premier League crown, but one which struggles to fill its home ground on a bi-weekly basis, cursed equally by fortune and geography. Fifteen years ago this month they were English football's representative on the biggest stage in European club football. A decade and a half on they have become, in global terms at least, something approaching a pub quiz answer.

Of course they have had a rich history prior to this. The second club to win three FA Cups on the bounce, the trophy cabinet isn't exactly bare. Indeed, when the Premier League took off they were something of a trend-setter. With the late and beloved Jack Walker's millions earning solid building society interest, they swiftly rose from the old Division One (or even older Division Two) to the top of the English tree, plucking some of the best on and off-field talents (Shearer, Sutton, Batty, Flowers, Dalglish) along the way. Just three short years separated promotion and coronation, enough to make Flavio Briatore tent his pants. At the time the English game, like a pre-1990s communist state, was very much in the larvae stage of mass foreign imports, overseas ownership even less evolved still. But even then the accusations flew – Blackburn, they said, had bought the league.

Having given Big Sam the boot (a game plan he may have otherwise approved of), the now-ruling Venky's Ltd stated this week that they would be seeking another British manager to move them forward, quashing speculation that his dismissal was due to him not being called, as the man himself would say, “Sam Allerdyci”. Indeed, at time of writing Steve Kean – assistant to Allardyce and touted for the Motherwell job during the summer – has, like old Saint Nick, been handed the reigns, and with a stirring endorsement from the owners ringing in his ears. "He could be manager forever" they blurted, a proclamation which perhaps betrays the naivety of those in charge. The fun doesn't stop there either – "we want to achieve the number four position" they straightfaced, a pretty bold mission statement by any measure and a strong signal of intent that they dream of lifting Blackburn back to the highest echelons of the game. But if they do one thing before naming a permanent successor to Allardyce, they should perhaps sit down for a quick history lesson.

Let's pause for breath for a second and take stock, for there's something troublingly familiar about all this. If memory serves me correctly (and I'm making no guarantee that it does), the past few years have seen remarkably similar soundbites pumped out by a whole variety of clubs. Manchester City and QPR have thrown money at the problem of basically not being Barcelona, while to a lesser extent Cardiff and Leicester City, amongst others, have outlined plans to head toward the top-most reaches of the domestic game, to say nothing of the continued star-reaching of Tottenham, Aston Villa, Liverpool and Everton. That top four is going to become awfully crowded at some point soon. Perhaps Richard Scudamore should consider hiring a marquee.     

I think I should make one thing clear – this isn't all 'bah-humbug' on my part. I'm no Scrooge McDuck. I'm not trying to rain on anyone's parade, nor am I looking to mock the ambitious. Quite the opposite in fact – the more competitive the league the better as far as I’m concerned. Only in the past few years have countries such as Portugal, Holland and France been able to break away from sustained periods of dominance by a handful of teams, while Scotland finds itself continuously mired in a state of perpetual two-team monopoly. Now Monopoly, as we all know, is a game which lends itself happily to a Boxing Day family gathering, but less so to the continued health of a major European league.

For Venky's to go on record with the aforementioned statement is surely only useful if their target is to set themselves up for a potentially gigantic fall. Talking a good game is one thing; seeing it through is another entirely. Let's not forget the case of West Ham and their Icelandic owners who rolled into town with lofty ambitions and found themselves selling up a little over three years later, chastened and out of pocket after some really quite silly spending and foolhardy decisions at all levels. They weren’t helped by the rapid global economic downturn, but as people that live, breath and quite possibly excrete money, they could have had the foresight to keep some salt in stock for an icy winter. The Hammers’ current plight should be warning enough to Rovers. If Manchester City represents the success story, then are West Ham not the cautionary tale? Perspective, as with so much in life, is everything.

In a curious twist of events, we could see Allardyce back in the ballgame before long, as West Ham themselves have reportedly been fluttering their eyes his way as they instruct the increasingly forlorn Avram Grant to win at least one game before Christmas or face the fall of a particularly chilly seasonal axe. Allardyce may feel more at home at the Boleyn anyway, possibly already dusting off the trapdoors and mirrors of his now-famed relegation escape act.

For now though, his dismissal adds further disappointment to a recent past that includes receiving some shoddy treatment at Newcastle and being overlooked for the England job once Sven Goran-Eriksson's slow-burning demise was complete. He kept Rovers impressively afloat following Paul Ince's doomed tenure but at the moment (especially in light of Bolton's aesthetic resurgence under Owen Coyle) he's a man out of favour and out of line with the status quo. Blackburn's new money men, meanwhile, could do worse than heed the words of the ghosts of takeovers past.

~ Matt

Is There Somewhere For Tevez?

Sofia Coppola’s latest film Somewhere retreads a theme that seems to have run through many of her films: alienation, dislocation and disconnection from the pervasive consumerist culture. Whether it be virgins opting out of white picket fence suburban America in Virgin Suicides or Bill Murray listlessly drifting through Japan in Lost in Translation, her films chart the topography of loneliness that many a twenty-something can connect with. One such man feeling the human brine glossing his eyes as he sits in the cinema watching an estranged father attempt to forge a bond with his teenage daughter could be Carlos Tevez. The title could seem to him to be mocking him with its unspecific reference to 'Somewhere'. Tevez claims to know where he needs to be: Buenos Aires, or at least in the Spanish speaking world. It would seem that all the qualities that make Tevez so vital to the City frontline – his dogged determination and the raging passion that would combust a lesser man – are the very traits that could well see him separated from his oil rich employers. Separation seems to recur in Tevez's life, like a short clunking riff repeated with dreadful frequency: separation from his wife and two daughters, then from Manchester United. Now with the prospect of an acrimonious split with Manchester City on the cards, can he find somewhere where he is happy to play football that can also appease his estranged family and (to the more cynical) his bank balance?

This is not to paint Tevez as a victim to the cruel system that has shovelled money into his bank vaults at a furious rate; that would be a far too two-dimensional approach to the affair. Tevez is clearly a complex and emotional individual, and these factors make untangling his true reasons for handing in a written transfer request more difficult. There is of course the plausible excuse that his family’s failure to establish a happy home in England is causing him real pain. For all his money he is still a young man trying to balance the demanding rigours of professional life and the responsibilities of being a father. His recent trip to Tenerife rather than Argentina has drawn attention, many claiming it undermines his assertions of homesickness; here again it would be hearsay to infer too much from it. City have come out and discounted this reason, citing his agent’s requests for an improved contract and the player’s declarations in the press that he is committed to the club.

On the point of the dealings of Tevez's agents it may be more helpful to view them as operating separately to Tevez and City. They are employed by Tevez to deal with his employers and make sure he gets the best deals possible. The agents generating revenue out of Tevez rely on his playing football, and for them it makes financial sense for him to be working for the richest owners on the planet. Should they be playing a very public game of brinksmanship – just as Rooney appeared to do earlier this season – they could be taking an almighty gamble. City are the one team in the world that would seem to be able to replace a player of Tevez’s quality, although such a replacement would not come as cheaply as the £25 million they paid for him. On the other point of Tevez declaring himself only recently committed to City, is it possible that at the time of that statement he was hoping to avoid the type of very public contractual negotiations that Rooney seemed to blunder through?

Whatever happens here, Tevez is further marginalising himself, laying himself open to accusations of being a mercenary. If he were to sign an improved contract with City he would have little defence. Considering their options would giving an improved contract to a disruptive player who has already publicly declared himself unstable be a wise move? Can the reported 8.6 million more he is reported to be claiming paper over the emotional cracks in his psyche? Or will this episode re-erupt every time he misses one of his daughter’s birthdays? This might be the time for City to prove that they have astute business acumen as well oceans of oil. Will we be treated to a press release photo of Mancini and Tevez cuddling in specially knitted sky blue Christmas jumpers with in the next two weeks? If City buckle to player demands they could face many more agents waking up and thinking about getting themselves a chunky Christmas bonus.

The answers to this situation seem to be currently as ambiguous as Bill Murray’s whisper into the ear of Scarlett Johansson in the final scene of Lost in Translation. We can only wait and see how this plays out.

~ Ed

I Like You Because You’re Dangerous: Look Away Now Salutes The Maverick

Maverick [mav-er-ick, mav-rik]

 - noun

1. someone who exhibits great independence in thought and action.

see: rebel, noncomformist

2. an unbranded range animal (especially a stray calf)

* * *

They say it's the oldest flames which burn the brightest. Actually they don't, but it sounds nice doesn't it? Sort of dramatic, romantic even. Fine, allow me to explain. Let's take a trip to east London...

In recent weeks, the relationship between West Ham United and manager Avram Grant has been under all kinds of strain: mostly wretched league form, the continued presence of a pair of gobby chairmen, the loss through injury of Mark Noble, ceaseless speculation concerning the future of Scott Parker (the captain, not the goldfish). I could go on, but it would bore you. The League Cup quarter-final drubbing of Manchester United brought an evening of heady relief but, rooted to the bottom of the Premier League table, the sound of divorce papers being filed grows ever louder.

West Ham is a club who in recent years have experienced their fair share of heartbreak. Early in the millennium they provided arguably the most talented group of relegatees in the league's history. They've seen managers come and go under varying degrees of acrimony, and there was of course the 2006 FA Cup final, conceded to Liverpool under the most dramatic of circumstances. Is it any wonder, then, that supporters have been calling for Grant’s head, and appear to be seeking potential solace in the tender arms of a former beau? The name emanating from the terraces at Upton Park is that of Paolo Di Canio, a man who isn't just any old flame. During four giddy years in claret and blue, the People's Fascist produced some truly memorable moments. Like this one. And this. He burned brightly. He played by his own rules. He was, make no mistake, a maverick.

Let's not confuse the maverick, of course, with the mercenary. The mercenary came, saw and headed for the bank. He took the car and the five acres and left the ex with a bedsit, two jobs and mounting credit card debt. The maverick, on the other hand, cared. In his own way, sure, but he cared nonetheless. The question is: should Hammers fans be looking forward to new desires and not trying to rekindle yesterday’s embers? Probably, but the lure of the maverick will always be a powerful aphrodisiac. Worshipped by fans, this mysterious stranger delivers a bolt of pure shock lightning to emblaze our otherwise drab footballing existence. Let's throw out a few names: Cantona, Ginola, Okocha, Juninho. All inspired and captivated in equal measure, while the crowds provided the admiration and the security they long needed to feel.

The idea of the maverick speaks to the fantasist in us all. He embodies something angry and dangerous and lost; the vivid brushstrokes of footballing folklore painting a picture of a tortured artist set adrift on a torrid, unforgiving sporting sea, washing up in some footballing backwater, simple of pasture but pure of heart. Here, as our mental narrative progresses, he finds not just kindness but acceptance; of what he is and what he believes. Suddenly free from the shackles of a misunderstood past, he finds licence to express himself, charmed, calmed and infused with new leases of life and potential by the welcoming adoration of the locals. Or at least he used to.

The maverick has long been a curious and celebrated phenomenon of the English game, but to these eyes it seemed to thrive particularly strongly during the initial boom years of the Premier League, when any old unfashionable, promotion-winning outfit could guzzle down a gullet-full of TV rights and shit out a headband-sporting, perma-stubbled Serie A misfit all of their own. At the time the notion of a squad packed full of overseas players was as far-flung as some of the locales they'd eventually arrive from, with many if not most top flight teams boasting a British, if not entirely English, backbone.

From what I can fathom, two forces have combined their might to curtail, if not eliminate, the maverick from the English game. As a team full of foreign players becomes the norm, so a maverick would fail to stand out on a purely aesthetic level: a side of Englishmen with a flamboyantly named talisman simply doesn’t exist anymore, certainly not at the top level of things. Secondly, changes in the nature of tactics employed across Europe are perhaps to blame for stifling a certain amount of individual creativity. Arsenal, for instance, play wonderful football – an epic sweep of verve and imagination – but they do so as a team. As ‘the invincibles’ had Henry, Bergkamp and Pires, so today’s version boasts Fabregas, Arshavin and Nasri. Barcelona regularly leave opponents with twisted blood, the mercurial Lionel Messi more often than not to blame. But remove him from the field and a side starring Iniesta, Pedro, Villa and Xavi would undeniably remain a joy to behold.

Rather, what we’ve witnessed over the past decade or so is the forging of the functional tactical unit, no better exemplified than by Jose Mourinho’s teak-tough Porto, Chelsea and Internazionale sides, not to mention the well-oiled modern machinery of Germany, Holland, et al. The main criticism aimed at Rafa Benitez’s Liverpool team (not least by this blog) was of tactical rigidity, an unwavering adherence to an inflexible system. It didn’t stop them winning the Champions League though. Of course these teams still boast a selection of truly great individuals – Drogba and Lampard, Gerrard and Torres, Özil and Sneijder – but the proliferation of the system and the style has inevitable trickled down the rungs of football's ladder. For all the exhibitionism and flair of Cantona, Ginola and their savoured ilk, their employers have long since moved on.

Of course, purely in terms of nationality, to be considered a maverick you don't strictly need to be a stranger in a strange land. Casting our search back to the days when most readers will have been but a horny stirring in our fathers' loins, George Best burned out in his native Britain before he faded away, while many of Johan Cruyff's finest on-field hours came at Ajax before he headed for Catalonia. Mavericks to a man, loving and loved, but with very different off-field mantras, not to mention correspondingly contrasting legacies. Perhaps no parameters of time or place can be snugly drawn around the maverick. If nothing else, this would certainly seem befitting of the enigmatic nature of the beast. There are other factors to consider too: the footballing world has gotten smaller for starters. Read a blog, download a podcast, turn on ESPN, heck even load up Football Manager and the minutiae of world football is right there for you to consume at your leisure. We know so much of what the wider sporting universe has to offer that some of the mystery has arguably disappeared, the lure of the beautiful stranger not quite as heart-racing now as it once was.

But maybe I'm mistaken. Perhaps it’s all a matter of perception. Maybe it just feels like this; a trick of the mind or of the memory. Maybe the longing that has engulfed West Ham’s diehards is nothing more than a nostalgic outcry of the soul, one which lies dormant and largely unheard in us all. Just as our longing may be a product of rose-tinted remembrance, perhaps so too the maverick himself is the product, certainly in footballing terms, of a bygone age. 

Whatever the cause of the phenomenon, the story will always end the same. You see, this passion between the man and his followers, like so many untethered affairs of the heart, is destined to be bittersweet. This love, this coupling of interlocking needs, this shared desire between fragile hearts and minds, will be intense and real but also fleeting. Whatever celestial confluence of want and fortune it was that brought them to us shall inevitably come to pass. Just as the planets one day invariably align, so they will always once more separate, forever moving asunder and apart. He’ll make you feel alive but he’ll never stay.

So here’s to the mavericks, or at the very least the ones we knew as youngsters, the type perhaps forever ploughed from the landscape of the modern game. Wherever they now roam, whatever oceans they’ve crossed or souls they’ve touched, they’ll forever be at home in our hearts.

~ Matt

C.R.I.S.I.S.

Chelsea Reign In Serious Implosion Scenario

Look Away Now has been avoiding this sad deterioration, much in the way you politely ignore the fetid urinal smell emanating from an elderly relative: they've done a great deal in the past and have great stories to tell, and it would be cruel to explicitly draw attention to the work of time’s withering touch.  Chelsea’s spine is creaking.  Drogba is no longer the rippling man muscle unit he was prior to contracting malaria; John Terry has the type of chronic back ailments usually associated with a 13-year old Victorian shoe-shine boy, and the shock of scoring an important goal for England (and then having it disallowed) seems to have caused Frank (don't call me FAT!!) Lampard's groin to disintegrate. 

Chelsea’s current malaise is far more puzzling than the mere “aging squad” shtick would have it seem.  Yes, Chelsea have an aging squad, but aging is a gradual process, and the rapid loss of confidence and verve which has been displayed by them in recent League outings suggests something else is at play.  Could it be that a team that has been one of the strongest in the Premier League is just having a pre-Christmas slump?  If this is the case then the upcoming triptych against Spurs, Man Utd and Arsenal would be the perfect time to snap out of it.  Lose these games and they will have painted a figuratively horrific masterpiece Frances Bacon would have been giddy about.

Chelsea are short at the back and Essien is a big miss for them, but the surprise is how ill-equipped they seem, both mentally and physically, when it comes to plugging these gaps.  Where has the team of the end of last season and the beginning of this one gone?  The team who ran up score lines similar to betting odds for Shane Warne turning out for Australia in the Ashes and saving their series.  Would it be too literary to trace these problems back to Wilkins’ dismissal?  After all, prior to this event almost anyone with a cursory interest in the Premier League had them nailed on as runaway favorites to retain their title.  Has a Russian Oligarch who shoots from the hip killed not just Wilkins’ career, but his team’s morale?  With the type of investment going into Russian Football over the next decade, might Abramovich be looking to take a chunk for himself, and in doing so lose interest in his West London pet?

Like a boxer who, after an impressive first round, replete with showboating gestures to the slathering crowd, steps out in the second and takes a three minute feast of fists to the face.  Like him, Chelsea sit bloodied in the corner. Can Ancelotti's omnipresent raised eyebrow lift their spirit? Can his whispering in their ear rekindle their confidence? Or do they just sit there wishing it was Wilkins who was daubing petroleum jelly on their open eye wound?

~ Ed

The Media And The Damage Done

In just over twenty-fours hours time, FIFA will announce which nations will be hosting both the 2018 and 2022 World Cups. If we're being brutally honest, it's not been the most drama-free of processes. England, of course, is in the running, along with Russia, Spain/Portugal and Holland/Belgium for the prize of the former.

Over the course of the bidding process, it seems like no serious campaign has escaped being at the very least brushed, and at worst tarred and feathered, by the conniving hand of scandal. We've seen the Russian team aiming cheap shots at England regarding our problems with crime and binge drinking, especially in London, for which painfully forced conciliatory letters were eventually exchanged, leading to a decidedly chilly truce. Meanwhile, Spain and Portugal's joint operation was recently censured after Spain faced a probe into allegations that they arranged (or at least attempted to arrange) a vote-trade with 2022 hopefuls Qatar, whose TV advertising campaign has been fronted by that famous son of Doha, Zinedine Zidane. Maybe he's looking to invest in Middle Eastern property.

And how could we possibly forget the whole Lord Triesman fiasco, when those renowned upholders of moral decency the Mail on Sunday recorded (supposedly off the record) remarks made by the former bid leader, in which he speculated that Spain would drop out of the running if Russia helped bribe referees at the then-upcoming 2010 World Cup finals? As a nation sighed, Triesman resigned, leaving the bid in apparent disarray.

The one common thread running through all of this sordidness is the British press, whose exposés have done as much as anything to undermine bids, both our own and others. The print media faced heavy criticism in the aftermath of Triesman, with certain raised voices claiming that one man's personal scepticisms, however poisonously laced, should have remained private. The rights and wrongs of such a viewpoint are pretty much a minefield of moral ambiguity, a description just as easily assigned to the aftermath of this week's BBC Panorama, which laid bare the “kick-back conspiracy” running to the very heart of the international game. The dubiously-scented contents of FIFA’s trashcan was picked over and examined, as were its links to International Sport and Leisure (ISL) – a Swiss-based sports marketing company repeatedly awarded the commercial rights of World Cup promotional contracts. We were treated to a revisiting of the reportedly dodgy dealings of the governing body’s hierarchy as far back as 1990, the programme and its host Andrew Jennings pinning serious bribery allegations to three top-ranking FIFA officials while casting the spotlight of corruption as far up as Jack Warner, the Dwight Yorke-loving FIFA Vice-Chairman, and a man wooed like Sarah Palin at a hunting lodge when tournament voting time comes around.

If the whole Triesman fiasco wasn’t bad enough, this broadcast could be potentially nuclear to England's bid prospects. And frankly, you have to question the logic of the outlets involved. Firstly, the newspapers. Imagine the scenario: Russia emerges triumphant from the bidding campaign but come, say, 2017 reports appear that claim they’ve fallen behind schedule in terms of construction, leading to growing fears, similar to those witnessed in the run-up to South Africa 2010 and the 2004 Athens Olympics, (and no doubt propagated by the very same papers) that the tournament may not be ready in time. You can bet your bottom dollar that the tabloids will be the first to start leaping about with their hands aloft, like a child desperate for their teacher’s thinly-spread attention, trumpeting our suitability to step in and play saviour, citing our ready-to-go stadia and post-Olympic infrastructural improvements. Very nice of them, but what a shame it may have been the very same corporations that so damaged our initial bid in the first place.

Secondly, the BBC. Ignoring the fairly blatant ratings-grab inherent in airing the programme so close to the hosting decision, perhaps the most damning criticism as far as the Beeb is concerned is that various key aspects and notable footage were lifted from several years ago, with certain portions of the show feeling like some kind of footballing corruption highlights reel. While Jennings was eager to contextualise this footage by aligning it with new evidence of bribery that has come to light in recent weeks, the show's focus eventually drifted towards a set of guarantees provided (and signed) by FIFA officials to hosting hopefuls, aiming to protect potential sponsors and assorted financial beneficiaries. If the overarching aim was to show FIFA in a bad light, they most certainly succeeded, but I can't shake the sensation that such is the derision with which FIFA is viewed that accusing them of massive-scale bribery and collusion feels not dissimilar to shooting fish in a barrel. Which is a real pity, because David Mellor's closing theory that a better outcome for England, rather than winning the bid, would be to lead the way in insisting on “the reform of FIFA,” to make them “transparent... and accountable,” was refreshingly noble.

In many ways it's easy to sympathise with the BBC, for are they not after all simply fulfilling their remit of providing important, worthy journalism? Yet they face a conundrum which Susie Dent would find taxing. Win the bid and no tangible harm will have been done: they'll have brought into sharp public focus the shadowy actions of the sport’s governing body, while their country will still reap the social and financial rewards coming their way. Lose, however, and they'll be painted as unpatriotic at best; major players in a continued national economic and footballing slump at worst. If the whole thing were a simple test of nerve, then you really would have to congratulate them.

To my mind, however, the really painful thing about all of this is that it feels like we, the supporters, are being somehow judged, which returns us neatly to the issue of morality. The sad state of affairs at the summit of the sport constantly pulls the observer almost full circle, hearing of bribes, kick-backs and collusion and meeting it with a roll of the eyes and a shrug of the shoulders, as if to say 'typical'. And then we carry on. Now, by pitting the excitement and prestige of hosting the World Cup up against the case for ethical steadfastness in the face of greed and exploitation, average Joe Shmoe is left in a horrid position. Love football? Of course. Fine, but do you hate corruption more? Well, possibly, but it's not really up to me to decide, and while we're at it, stop making me feel ashamed of wanting to watch Lionel Messi ply his trade in the flesh.

In the closing moments of Monday night's broadcast, Roland Rino Büchel, a former ISL account director, called for an “independent investigation into the FIFA books.” Quite right too. Unfortunately for England, the sad outcome may be that the editorial decisions of its country's media will be difficult to view as anything remotely approaching independent, no matter how objective FIFA claims its executive committee will remain.

Whatever conclusion you care to reach, the whole affair leaves a distinctly bitter taste in the mouth. Did the BBC make a selfless decision to take on corruption head-first, or merely fumble into an exercise in foot-shooting? The clumsy, grubby truth is that football's highest echelons appear beset with dirty dealings. This much we probably knew already. But what the media are ultimately asking us is which evil should we be viewing as the lesser: from one angle, a culture of dirt-digging and mud slinging; from the other, a nation's investigative media exposing shallow acts, but in a way (and, perhaps crucially, a precise moment) which will quite possibly be to the detriment of the country in a whole range of ways. In short: nobody wins.

~ Matt

Put The Crack Pipe Of False Dawns Down And Plan For Tomorrow

In the maelstrom of ink and hyperbole it is often easy for journalists as well as readers to lose track of the essence of any story.  The key word in that sentence is ‘story’ because this is what we are being fed when we open the broadsheet or red top, or click the link: a narrative.  In England’s last display the story of Jordan Henderson’s call up and subsequent anonymous performance typifies the way the sports media operate.  On the face of it Henderson had a debut that was typical for many young payers stepping up onto a higher platform.  Indeed, anyone who has started a new job or gained a promotion knows that first you learn what is expected, and then given time you hopefully excel.  Where before the game he was being touted to sign for United or City, after the final whistle the disappointment was palpable and the hacks who had lavished praise on him turned on him and his England counterparts.  We were weak.  Talentless.  Our youth not displaying the confidence and verve of the French.  It is hard to disagree with all these sentiments but it is wrong to think that we can offer nothing.  Less technically proficient teams have done well in major tournaments; we need to learn to play to our strengths rather than lament our weaknesses.

Another fallacy is that Henderson was played somehow out of position.  As if a young and malleable player, pushed a few yards back in the pitch should suddenly be completely lost.  As if the only formation suitable for his style of play is the one employed by Steve Bruce at Sunderland.  He played beside Garth Barry and in such surely he was the box to box midfielder in that pair.  England have never employed a double defensive shield in midfield.  Henderson played in the middle of the park where his running and ability to pick a pass could be best assumed to have maximum impact.  His performance was spectral due to a lack of self belief; this will grow with age, and if he is ever to be a dominant and exciting presence in international football then this game will make him stronger.  The media constantly want things yesterday: patience doesn’t sell print.  It is up to the fans to back the young players, looking towards the next World Cup rather than the European Championships in two years

Before kick off Fabio Capello attempted to diffuse the excitement surrounding the fixture by explaining openly that this integration of young talent would not be without its growing pains.  Capello cannot be criticised for fielding Gibbs, Henderson and Carroll against France; the only valid criticism is that it has taken him so long to turn his attentions to the green upshoots of the English game, rather than continue to hawk the wilting petals of England’s Golden Generation^TM at the Chelsea Flower show… this analogy is withering – much like hope of winning a World Cup this side of my great-grand daughter’s birth.

It cannot be denied that England lack technical ability, that not everything can be achieved by merely ‘upping the tempo’.  There is reason to pause before curtailing this first foray into younger talent pools.  Support is the key here, in every possible use of the word.  Media and FA need to pull together and fans need to give things time.  Moping over X amount of years of hurt and booing young men will not get us to the summit of world football.

In the run up to the 2018 World Cup bid result we will be discussing how we can get a team ready to really compete.


~ Ed

Mercy, Beaucoup: Reaction To England v France

When the books of history are pulled from the shelf, dusted off and pawed over, the conclusion will be drawn that 2010 was not a year of fine vintage for either the English or French national sides. After eleven months of scandal and skeletons, not to mention a pair of World Cup campaigns so utterly and identically embarrassing that they almost deserved each other, the two sides met at a surprisingly robustly-turfed Wembley with their eyes determinedly fixed to the future.

All the pre-match amble surrounded the inclusion in the England squad (and, as it turned out, starting XI) of Andy Carroll, the Newcastle United good-time guy and occasional striker with a pony tail to make Carmela Soprano weak at the knees. Alongside fellow débutante Jordan Henderson was to be found a distinctly gloopy mix of familiar starters (Ferdinand, Gerrard, Barry) and bit-parters (Ben Foster, Joleon Lescott), while the visitors had simply started again from scratch, banishing the collapsed stars so bereft of spark and gumption (not to mention discipline) this summer, replacing them with eager, white hot novae like Samir Nasri and Yann M’Vila. On a night when 39 year-old Jari Litmanen found himself on the score sheet for Finland, it was encouraging to see a side embracing the new, and successfully too if their opening Euro 2012 qualifiers are anything to go by.

The first real action of the evening, however, was to be found on the touchline during the pre-game meet-n-greet. While French boss Laurent Blanc, looking not unlike a young Fabio Capello, stood classily bespectacled and calmly overcoated, the Italian himself, clearly feeling in uncharacteristically fruity mood, set about donning an England baseball cap. Not quite the dapper, elderly Euro-gent look we've become accustomed too. Perhaps he was hitting the tiles with Carroll afterwards.

Once the match got underway, it didn’t take long for the usual pattern to emerge. For the opening few minutes, England came out of the blocks at pace, getting in the visitor’s faces and trying to stop them settling into any kind of rhythm. The problem with playing this way, however, is that it can’t last for long against a team schooled in the fine art of ball-retention – certainly not for ninety minutes and, in this game’s case, barely for ten. France, instead of rushing, simply manoeuvred the ball with patience and care, shuffling players between the lines and causing the hosts to chase about like participants in a high class game of “piggy in the middle”. Before long, Karim Benzema and Florent Malouda orchestrated a deft one-two, resulting in the former driving the ball inside Foster’s near post. It was a fine strike, but also another blow for the Birmingham man’s confidence, so little of which he’s displayed on any level higher than the midsection of the Premier League table.

Five minutes after the opening goal a string of French passes lasting ninety seconds or more broke down and the ball dropped to the otherwise immensely impressive Gerrard, who immediately tried the 'Hollywood' sweep over the top towards Theo Walcott. Walcott, if you weren't aware, is quite quick. As a human pressure relief valve he's a dream come true; as a tool of balance and build-up, he might as well be wearing stilts. Needless to say, the ball was surrendered no sooner than it was won, the whole sorry episode summing up the difference between the two teams, both in terms of ability and mentality. Hope and thunder versus poise and control. Even the usually myopic Andy Townsend, summarising for ITV, saw it for what it was: “Here comes the forty-yarder”, he dead-panned, a voice weighed down with heavy-hearted resignation.

As with most international friendlies, half-time saw substitutions abound, with Micah Richards, Ashley Young and Adam Johnson introduced and the formation tweaked to a 4-5-1 in a bid to fend off France’s midfield dominance. But it was to no avail, and before the hour the visitors had doubled their lead with a classy, sweeping move finished off by the frankly excellent Mathieu Valbuena.

As the end approached and Gerrard trudged off with a knock and further domestic misery to look forward too, the Chap In The Cap brought on fan’s favourite Peter Crouch who, with his very first touch, converted a corner with a beautifully placed side-foot volley. Suddenly, with five minutes to go, England stirred and the game became frantic and open, as the hosts caught scent of the unlikeliest of equalisers. Several opportunities were so nearly brought to life, only to be choked at birth by a combination of inaccurate crossing and mislaid composure. The blunt truth of the matter is that anything other than a home defeat would have been a cover-up of epic proportions. In the end, class told. Same as it ever was.

So what conclusions can be gleamed from last night’s antics? On the positive side, Carroll looked like a natural, playing without fear and leading the line with determination and no little skill. You’d ideally like to see him closer to goal, but we can worry about that later – for now, he looked the part. Gerrard once again tried to be everything to everyone, and whilst such enthusiasm is always gratefully received, he still needs to be better directed, to have his energy and restlessness channelled into a system befitting of his undoubted qualities. For his own part, a little positional discipline wouldn’t go astray, but overall he led like the international leader that he perhaps should be. As far as negatives go, there are a million match reports I could plagiarise – Barry is no more an international holding player than you or I, while the dearth of quality depth, particularly in goal and at the back, remains a real concern.

But what the match really highlighted is a deeper-rooted malaise in the technical progression of the English game. As a one-off performance it can of course be forgiven, such were the number of injuries suffered by the hosts, coupled with a welcome desire to blood some of our younger guns. And yet as a neat summation of where England is as a footballing force, it was, at times, brutally accurate.  

~ Matt

Eastland Promise: How The Derby Was Drawn And Where It Got Us

Let’s be blunt: this wasn’t exactly the November fireworks display we were all hoping for. The build-up was stifling almost to the point of suffocation; never before in our lifetimes had a Manchester derby carried so much importance on its proud shoulders. In recent years, this local meeting had started to slip down Manchester United’s ladder of importance for a number of reasons. Domestically United had gone from strength to strength, continuing to dominate the business end of the Premier League while forging heated rivalries with Chelsea and Arsenal, not to mention continuing the running ‘who’s got more titles’ battle between themselves and Liverpool. United had also gone about raising their European trophy haul closer to the repeatedly decorated likes of Real Madrid and AC Milan by adding another two Champions League vases to a trophy cabinet already straining under its own weight.  

Meanwhile, back in the North West, those in light blue had spent a reasonable amount of the preceding ten to fifteen years yo-yoing between the top two, or even three, divisions, struggling to steady the ship, all the while living in the blanketing shadow of Old Trafford. But then something happened. In August 2008, reportedly days away from possible administration, City were bought by the Abu Dhabi United Group and in the twinkling of an eye everything changed. Within hours audacious bids were being lodged for just about every footballing household name you could care to think of, and in the following weeks and months City became the word on the lips of every individual across Europe with even a passing interest in the game. Were they the new Chelsea? The new Real Madrid even? Of greater importance locally, were we about to see a seismic footballing shift within their own city; a coup d’état in terms of purchasing ability, title challenging potential and global brand power? In short, were City about to become the new United?

Fast forward two years and City have recruited an expensive and talented playing side with an admirably English nucleus, and boast the sharpest-suited boss this side of Savile Row. Across the way, United open the shutters each morning to find an ever-growing queue of critics lining up to hark of a crumbling empire, one saddled with mountainous debt and a backbone of superstars on the wane. In short, not in many a long year had the Manchester derby acted as such a barometer for where the power status of the city currently lay. A positive result either way would be huge; stories of contrasting polemic, of simultaneous ascent and decline, surely already sat near-complete on newspaper office hard drives throughout Fleet Street and beyond, with only the blanks – the goalscorers, the hows and whens, the hard numbers – waiting to be filled.

The brooding back-story was, it must be said, equalled by the opening night theatrics. Whoever was in charge of stage direction at Eastlands on Wednesday evening deserves an Academy Award. The pre-production was without fault – stories of disease crippling the visitors’ squad, the evening kick-off time, the noise and the lights within the ground, the flares and the entrance music. The scene came on like some sporting apocalypse; only those with the toughest shells and hardest wills would survive to survey the debris.

And then, ninety minutes later, it was over. For all the pre-match gunpowder and plot, the match itself never truly ignited. Set up with similar formations and desires to neutralise first and attack second, the sides cancelled each other out for long periods. Last season we saw (including the League Cup semi-final) three explosive encounters between the two parties. Perhaps, when the sides met at Old Trafford last autumn, City were still happy to play the gallant underdog role, to take the game to United on their own turf. Having said that, maybe there’s equal validity to the argument that United have honed their 4-5-1 away game to such an extent that this was as much an attacking threat as we could have hoped for from them, especially if their recent journeys to Stamford Bridge are anything to go by. Last season’s late 1-0 win at Eastlands would certainly add strong testimony to such a theory. For City, there was so much more to lose this time: not just pride to be dented, but genuine title ambitions too. All the trademarks of the current side were on display: the tough-tackling yet still cultured midfield three, the Argentinean upstart forward who works and works and then when he’s finished, works some more. United utilised the strengths of Park and Scholes like we knew they would – graft and control in equal measure – with Berbatov and Nani charged with conjuring some deadlock-breaking moment. Sadly, it never came.

So where does all this leave us? With no bragging rights won and no point margin increased, the situation remains very much as-you-were. United lost further ground to Chelsea after their defeat of Fulham in the night’s other derby, but avoiding defeat to the noisy neighbours was, for the first time in forever, arguably of more importance. As far as City themselves are concerned, they showed again that they can roll with the punches of the traditional heavyweights. This weekend they remain at home for the visit of Birmingham, but it is perhaps last week’s victory at West Brom – the type of fixture that cliché-abusers would say title challenges are won and lost by – that better defines their progress since that heady day in August two years ago. Ominously, it’s the kind of fixture which United (who face a tricky trip to Villa) have failed to put to bed on more than one occasion this season. But then as the old saying goes, there’s no substitute for experience, and when it comes to chasing down the leaders, experience is something of which United have plenty in reserve.

The return match at Old Trafford is currently pencilled in for Saturday 12th February, although it's unlikely a 3pm Saturday start for this fixture will remain in place for long. I'd advise you to save your Valentine's Day plans until Monday.

~ Matt

The Look Away Now Team Of October

It is, as you may or may not have noticed, November. A fine month November, renowned for its predilection for fireworks, ever-shortening days and that creeping, gnawing feeling in your gut that you might just have wasted the preceding ten months and not achieved a single one of those resolutions you swore blind you’d stick to even if they killed you. Still, never mind: New Year’s Eve again soon.

Anyway, back to business. Such a fine cluster of days also represents the perfect opportunity to paw back over October’s top-flight action and come up with one of those best-of lists/rundown-type things that blogs, websites and people with few other social outlets just ache to compile. Our list of choice is a selection of the finest Premier League performers on display since September took its leave – a “team of the month” if you’re feeling picky.

Of course, such a list will be based solely on the opinions of Look Away Now’s dedicated writing team (i.e. both of us), so by the time you’ve navigated your way to the end of this piece, you may find yourselves in gob-smacked awe of our uncanny ability to sniff out the strongest XI imaginable. Alternatively you may become so uncontrollably angry and enraged, such is your dismay at finding your own preferred star performer discarded without so much as a casual mention, that you’ll leave work early and start up your own blog, simply to spite us. Frankly, we’ll be glad of any sort of emotional response. We’re that needy.

So without further ado, we give you Look Away Now’s Team of October. What’s that? No Gareth Bale? Controversial…

* * *

Goalkeeper

Matthew Gilks (Blackpool)

The theory goes that newly-promoted ‘keepers will get their hands far dirtier than their better-established brethren, such is the sheer volume of traffic they’ll surely be facing. The thing about Matt Gilks is that he’s not only beaten off the onslaught for the most part, he’s done it in such a fine way that he’s helped propel our plucky heroes Blackpool into the cushion-soft comfort zone of midtable.

Until recently Gilks’ career looked to be gradually petering out into mediocrity: seven years at Rochdale saw him clock up almost 200 appearances, until a move to Norwich rather stunted things. In came Blackpool and following a spell on the bench, he’s established himself to the extent that Man City are rumoured to be casting their beady, cash-ready eyes over him as back up for Joe Hart should Shay Given decide he might fancy a game this season. There’s even been hushed mumbles of an England call up. Exciting times.

Defence

Phil Jagielka (Everton)

Everton’s four league fixtures in October saw the Toffees ship just a solitary goal, surrendered, not exactly unforgivably, to Spurs’ frankly unplayable Rafael van der Vaart (more on him later). Considering two of their clean sheets came against members of last year’s top ten (Liverpool and Birmingham), we’re thinking their defence may have had more than a little something to do with it.

Jagielka (or “Jags” to intolerable people) has been in the form of his life for a while now, and has come a long way in recent times. Once a battling Championship defender/midfielder, best known for Sheffield United’s cup runs, his move to Everton two years ago has seen him come into his own, adapting to the culture shock of regular top flight action with apparent ease and earning a seemingly regular place in the England team in the process. Vital to Everton’s late-autumn revival, he’s been earning plaudits across the nation, and we feel duty-bound to join in.

Nemanja Vidic (Manchester United)

Back to fitness and back to his intimidating best, the man they call, er, Nemanja has been at the heart of United’s steady revival over the past few weeks. After the club’s much spotlighted off-field sordidness, Vidic has helped the United backline regain a modicum of steadiness (van der Saar howler aside) and while he’s certainly never going to get any quicker, his influence is growing at a pace, aiding the fast-track development of Chris Smalling to the extent that the young Englishman appears to have usurped Johnny Evans as United’s first reserve at centre half.

It should be noted that Vidic has also been tossed the captain’s armband, suggesting those rumours of his (or rather, his wife’s) unhappiness at Mancunian life that crop up every couple of months can finally be led out back and shot.

Vincent Kompany (Manchester City)

Kompany has been living up to his name and keeping close quarters with the Premier League’s burliest centre forwards, attaching himself limpet-like to Didier Drogba in City’s war of attrition with Chelsea at Eastlands. It is easy to underestimate his ability playing behind the wall of muscle that Mancini has constructed to protect his back four, but Kompany is the class act in an otherwise underwhelming defence.

Like a version of de Jong with ethics, he pounces on loose passes and heavy touches, mopping up any opposition attacks that have made it past Nigel “Scissor Legs” and Yaya “The Human Freight Train” Touré.

Branislav Ivanovic (Chelsea)

Is he a full-back or is he a centre-half? Truth be told, he’s really rather good at both. Not the quickest defender you’ll ever meet, young Branislav is more than making up for it with a string of commanding performances wherever he’s been deployed across the Chelsea backline.

Four clean sheets in five games during October, and a winning goal at Blackburn to boot (not to mention two more against Spartak Moscow in the Champions League) show that while he might not be at a John Terry-like level of importance quite yet, his steadiness and adaptability might just make him one of the more important members of Chelsea’s squad as we head into the deep midwinter.

Midfield

Nani (Manchester United)

Spurs fans may want to cut off his tongue, attach it to an autumnal stick and beat him with it while shouting ‘IT’S JUST NOT CRICKET’ while he looks on google-eyed thinking – ‘no, it’s not cricket…it’s football…no?’ Yes, he is a c**t.  But he has turned into the type of c**t that you picked first when you where ten and the field was tarmac, the goalposts cans of Lilt and the ball made for tennis.

Match-winning goals in Europe and the league have help United through a lean patch and have seen him running around celebrating on his own, hoovering up any stray credit which, to be fair, has been his for the taking so far this season. 

Kevin Nolan (Newcastle United)

As so eloquently pointed out by football365’s must-read columnist John Nicholson, Kevin Nolan is emblematic of that old fashioned, not-exactly-trim, top flight footballer of yesteryear all but eliminated from the elite regions of the game thanks to Opta Stats and nutrition. Once upon a time Nolan was supposedly close to the England set-up, but was surprisingly sold by Bolton and immediately plummeted to the Championship with the Toon.

But as is befitting of such a mighty frame, Nolan has bounced back and this season (at time of writing) has seven goals and a key role in Andy Carroll’s continued freedom to his name. Not bad for a man responsible for perhaps the driest media output in living memory.

Charlie Adam (Blackpool)

The man with two first names, Charlie Adam has effortlessly translated his Championship form into top drawer top flight performances. His passing and movement grease the wheels of the Blackpool midfield and his goals have carried them up the table, where many had expected their performances to be Geneva Convention-flaunting re-enactments of America’s water-boarding torture techniques: almost like drowning, but without the death.

Typical column inches have linked him to Liverpool and other Europe-bothering teams, but we hold onto the dream of seeing Blackpool in the Europa League and maybe Adam is the man to make it happen.

Rafael van der Vaart (Tottenham)

A goal in every game he has played at White Hart Lane has won him a place in the hearts of the Spurs faithful. Plaudits have been coming in from all over for his enterprising football, his effusive mannerisms and his Scholes-like lunging tackles. It has been a couple of decades since Tottenham boasted a midfield as artful as that of van der Vaart, Modric and Huddlestone and with Rafael at the fulcrum priding the goals, Spurs may have found the 20 goal-a-season midfielder that success in the Premiership seems to demand.

He nudges Bale out of the Team of October on his league form and for the sense he conveys with every touch that he is ever on the cusp of something magical.

Forwards

Javier Hernandez (Manchester United)

For a player moving to England from Mexico, taking some time to settle doesn’t exactly sound like an unreasonable request. Not so in the case of Hernandez, who has well and truly hit the ground running after an impressive pre-season campaign where he managed to find the net not only for United, but against them too. 

‘Chicharito’ followed up his Champions League strike at Valencia with four goals in all competitions throughout October, including a brace at Stoke and a late Carling Cup winner against Wolves. With Wayne Rooney’s body and mind seemingly splintered into a thousand unfit and unfocused shards, and with Michael Owen sneakily sabotaging his own legs just to get more time watching the gee-gees, Hernandez has become United’s first choice partner for the equally fantastic and frustrating Dimitar Berbatov. Old Trafford might have another hero to worship.

Carlos Tevez (Manchester City)

The Argentine maestro’s inclusion in our team is merited as much by his time spent on the pitch as off it. Three goals in two Premier League games at the front end of October saw the novelty t-shirt loving forward take his goal tally at the time for City to an astonishing 30 in 42 games – sky-scraping figures by anyone’s standards. An early red for Dedryck Boyata against Arsenal saw Tevez choked of decent service but continued to do his usual lone furrow bit until his lungs actually collapsed and all the liquid in his body turned to vapour. Probably.

But it was his absence at Molineux against Wolves that proved the kicker; missing through injury (and, to perhaps a lesser extent, homesickness), Roberto Mancini chose to place Emmanuel Adebayor and Marco Balotelli at the spearhead of his side. With both forwards unlikely to be competing for any National Bit-Of-Give-And-Take Awards any time soon, City were out-worked and, for surprisingly long periods, out-thought by Mick McCarthy’s men. If City are to genuinely have a shot at Champions League qualification (at least) this term, keeping Tevez fit and happy is a must. Mancini has reportedly had a dressing room uprising on his perfectly manicured hands. Lose Tevez for more than just a handful few games, and he might well have a state of emergency to contend with.

~ Ed & Matt

The Look Away Now Back-To-Basics Friday Predictions

Happy weekend, dearest reader. As you may have noted, Look Away Now, when it comes to the delicate art of presenting our humble predictions, has been mixing it up a little in recent weeks. We like to think that in an age of bland, flat-packed furniture and uninspiring Saturday night television, it really does pay to take the occasional stroll on the wilder side of life. Yes it may be unnerving, even a little scary, but a wee bit of mind expansion never really hurt anyone. Apart from maybe Syd Barrett.

Having posited that, there does remain a lot to be said for tradition. For after all, what would the beautiful game be without its traditions? Match Of The Day? Check. Stuart Hall sitting in a radio commentary booth at Goodison Park talking glorious nonsense? Check. With that in mind, we return with a full and funky rundown of this weekend’s Premier League fixtures and fittings. Ten games, no messing. So let’s begin.

Saturday 6^th November

Bolton v Gareth Ba… sorry, Tottenham, 12:45pm

With the chant 'Taxi for Maicon' reverberating in his gibbon-like skull box, Gareth Bale will once again be the focus of Bolton’s attention. Should Coyle's XI double up on the Welsh Wizard ^TM (rights have reverted from previous owner as of 2/11/10) it will be up to the rest of Spurs outfield to exploit the space and press for the full three points.

There are suggestions that Tottenham have never won a game in the Premier League at the Reebok. Can this be true? Yes, yes it can. This is a game Spurs need to win to keep them within touching distance of the top four, but Bolton are no pushovers and their passing ain’t too shabby either. Expect a hard fought but aesthetically pleasing spectacle. Crack an egg, make an omelette and enjoy this lunch-time feast. Maybe that's over-egging it a little.

1-2

Birmingham v West Ham, 3pm

Owners: saviours or pains in the proverbial? ‘A little from column A, a little from column B’ is probably the correct response to this little poser, an answer with no better embodiment than Davids Gold and Sullivan. Once the men who lifted Birmingham from Championship-level mediocrity to the top flight, they now find themselves charged with turning around West Ham, a side that’s seen more false dawns than... ok, we’ve got nothing here, suggestions in the comments box please. Let’s just agree they’ve seen a lot of false dawns, ok?

Saddled with a fashionable batch of crippling debt and a disjointed, pick-n-mix of a team, Avram Grant needs something to stick soon. Mark Noble, a dependable force in the centre of the park, will be missing for a month while Birmingham look to have found a little form at last. Fun fact of the day: David Gold has a pet fish called Scott Parker.

1-0

Blackburn v Wigan, 3pm

It surprised us to learn that Blackburn have won only two matches thus far this season; more surprising still that one of these was away from Ewood Park. The truism that struggling teams’ home form keeps them alive has never rung truer than at Blackburn over the past few years, and for all Big Sam’s bravado, it’s the performances of their now-ex England stopper Paul Robinson that have been largely to thank for the retention of their top flight status over the past year and a half.

Wigan meanwhile continue to confuse and confound. When N’Zogbia, Rodallega and the like turn it on they can look like a real threat, and yet the defence remains leaky and the form fluctuating. Wigan owner Dave Whelan asked for greater desire from his team this week. Against Blackburn’s muscle, they’ll need it.

2-1

Blackpool v Everton, 3pm

Happy times for Blackpool these, as they’ve continue to pour scorn on those pre-season naysayers (that’ll be all of us, then) who by this stage expected to see them on zero points and displaying a goal difference closer to a cricket score. Everton meanwhile have been on the up and up themselves, with strong performances against Liverpool, Stoke and Spurs dragging them away from the dodgy end of the table.

The superstitious amongst us may well be expecting Blackpool, fresh from their first home top flight victory in decades, to pull off the proverbial waiting-for-a-bus trick and grab a second on the bounce. Those people, however, would be fools.

1-2

Fulham v Aston Villa, 3pm

Is just it me or does each check of Fulham’s upcoming fixture, whoever it may be against, find itself met with a perpetual mental ‘meh’? Maybe it’s all those draws or their front line injury crisis, or maybe they’ve just been given a run of uninspiring opponents.

Either way, we here at Look Away Now have a good feeling about tomorrow’s match up with Villa, who are struggling to find consistency under Gerard Houllier. Players are unsettled – Ashley Young and Stephen Ireland spring immediately to mind – and the days of Villa pushing the for a top four spot seem like a distant, haunted memory. With Andy Johnson ready to make a comeback, Fulham’s time to put on a show may be upon us.

3-1

Manchester United v Wolves, 3pm

Home to a midlands side that plays nice football but will probably be battling relegation come the spring? Easy three points. At least that’s what we assumed when West Brom visited the Theatre of Sleepless Nights last month. Wolves registered their second win of the campaign against Manchester City last weekend, but this time they come up against a side very much in the ascendancy, following a comfortable night in Europe and last week’s not-controversial-in-the-slightest defeat of Spurs.

The dual absences of Nani and Fletcher may well present a headache for Sir Alex ahead of the midweek Manchester derby, but they should (should) have enough in reserve here.

2-1

Sunderland v Stoke, 3pm

Sunderland, it seems, are a tough team to get a hold on.  If we asked you to describe their overall footballing style, you’d probably struggle for adjectives. Similarly, their end of season placing seems to be the most divisive amongst those of us who like to indulge in a spot of July final table musing. Just two defeats so far this season (both away) see them in that strange early winter midtable zone, lying three points off Europe and four off the drop. Depending on how results around them fall, Steve Bruce could wake up on Monday having recovered from his weekly session of referee baiting with his team as high as 5^th or as low as second bottom.

Oh and Kenwyne Jones returns to his old club. He’s handy with his feet for a big man you know.

2-1

Sunday 7^th November

Arsenal v Newcastle, 1:30pm

Newcastle used to be scared of London. They used to dread even turning up, like a schoolboy afraid of the bullies lurking in the corridor, throwing a sicky for the umpteenth time and cowering under the bed sheets with just a Blink-182 cassette for succour. Newcastle’s mother has spent a lot of time worrying. But the years have come and gone and the once-meek adolescent has put a troubling puberty behind him and guess what? He isn’t afraid anymore.

Between November 1997 and December 2001 Newcastle failed to register a single victory in the nation’s capital in twenty-nine consecutive attempts, apparently until everyone’s favourite cutlery-teasing headcase Uri Gellar got involved. Their record since hasn’t been a whole lot better. Until now. This season they’ve won there twice, and despite their Carling Cap shellacking last week at the hands of tomorrow’s opponents, the Toon have no reason to fear their trip to the Emirates, where Arsenal have slipped up at least once this term. Yes the Magpies may well lose, but they’ll stand up for themselves in the process. Mother can be proud of her boy.

2-1

West Brom v Man City, 3pm

West Brom are proving themselves to be quite the spunky little upstarts: exactly the kind of team you don’t want to be facing after a run of three demoralising defeats (is there any other kind?) on the spin. Roberto Mancini has spent what little time he’s had between recent humblings fervently denying rumours of a mutiny on the Bounty, but they need to turn the ship around quickly.

Managers of Champions League hopefuls have been removed from their duties for worse runs than this and in a game that could be quite the entertainer, Mancini needs his stars to start shining again. Will they? Look Away Now says, with reasonable confidence, no.

2-2

Liverpool v Chelsea, 4pm

What was once a meeting of half of the Sky Four has now arguably become just another one of those tricky away days for the reigning Champions. Buoyed by three wins on the spin, Roy Hodgson looks to have (if we are to mercilessly continue the nautical theme) finally steadied the ship a little, although it’s hardly plain sailing (sorry) from here on in. They still rely too much on Gerrard for inspiration, and they need Torres to start hitting the net again pronto. Someone get the lad a wig; his form disappeared with those lovely girly locks.

Chelsea will be without Malouda for this one, but with a possible return for Lampard and with Anelka looking like the kind of player we always hoped he could be, you feel the Blues’ excellent record at Anfield might just be set to continue

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~ Ed & Matt