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