Black Christmas

Strange things are afoot at Ewood Park. Blackburn Rovers being bottom of the league isn't one of them, of course – they look a team short on confidence and composure and this year the usual Yuletide winds of discontent are blowing harsher than ever. This week saw them face fellow north-west strugglers Bolton in the so-called 'relegation derby', but while their respective league positions make for distinctly unseasonal reading, it is the home side's off-field issues which are making for a particularly bleak mid-winter, especially if your name happens to be 'Steve Kean'.

I don't know any Blackburn supporters, but I'm worried about their collective state of mind. As the half-time whistle trilled, with the hosts trailing 2-0 to the only team (at that moment) with less points than them, the boos roared like a hurricane across the rain-battered pitch, prompting the gathered TV cameras to focus their gaze on the crowd in search of dissenters. They didn't have to look too hard. Held aloft by the dozen were the now-ubiquitous 'KEAN OUT' banners, as regular a fixture at Ewood Park as Paul Robinson is between the sticks, and yet as the cameras focused, a perplexing phenomena occurred. As the supporter's ire expelled itself from their lungs, the fans – angry and wrathful and tasting blood, their patience stretched to breaking point – looked towards the lens and what did we find on their sodden faces? Smiles. Grins. Laughter, even. The throbbing, fibrous rage towards the club's power-players just stood and waved and powdered it's nose for it's close-up.

Ok, I may be over doing it a touch here. There were vexed faces to be sure, and plenty of them, along with clenched fists, lashing tongues and bloodshot eyes, but there on our screens stood fans caught somewhere between vengefulness and just being happy to be there. “Look at us,” their faces seemed to scream. “We're angry – and we're on TV!' Drama loves a stage.

What to make of all this? The complex relationships at work around Blackburn would be enough to make Dear Deirdre dial up her own helplines. “Trapped in an abusive, joyless relationship with some Indian poultry magnates and a delusional Scotsman? Call 0800-KEAN-OUT.” The truth as I see it (which may therefore not be truth at all) is that Blackburn's hate-hate marriage with Kean is becoming a self-fulfilling tragedy. The cameras love the drama – the manager on the brink, clinging to the edge of the precipice as football itself steps remorselessly on his fingers – but so do the fans. It's why we're in this thing in the first place, if we're honest. And, as the coverage of 'the Blackburn situation' increases, so deepens the co-dependant nature of their loathsome tryst; the protests and the frustration and the venting at Venky's becoming part of a show in which Kean is merely the lead role. Hell, they may even miss him when he's gone. Especially if they get Alan Shearer for Christmas.

In fact, thinking about this for a second, it's a little surprising to the neutral that the owners are receiving as small a proportion of the protests as they are. Perhaps the media at large just prefers a good old-fashioned managerial sack-race. Perhaps the owners, having admitted to not exactly being from footballing stock, are enjoying the coverage and the column inches, if not revelling in them then at least appreciating the profile boost that such times bring, further proof still of the twisted intimacy at work here. Either that or they just don't give a shit. Actually, yeah, let's go with the last one.

All of which makes things rather rough on poor Kean. The man in charge (for now, at least) strikes me as an individual of almost unshakable self-belief, remaining as he does outwardly unfazed by the histrionics around him. To exhibit such stoicism when all around are calling for your head to be paraded through the city centre on a spike is admirable no matter what your profession, but such personal focus can inevitably leave blind spots.

Sometimes, when others are openly questioning your ways, your ideology and your talent, it's almost easier to stick to your guns with even greater gusto. “I'll prove them wrong”, Kean must be thinking. “I'll prove them all wrong.” But when this happens, it's the rational part of your mind which suffers, as gradually you become a glutton for punishment. Before you know it, you're sticking so rigidly to your own principles that each new word of criticism, each loaded jibe and vitriolic shriek takes on a smugly-satisfying, almost quasi-erotic feel. You start to relish it. You even start to get off on it. You begin to savour every cutting remark; each gobful of abuse leaving you thrashing about in a dark dream of hateful ecstasy, steadily driving you towards an increasingly lustful level of sadomasochistic revelry. Or maybe that's just me.

And yet Kean's optimism is undeniable affecting. He has repeatedly argued that, once his regular defence is back in place, we'll see a meaner, leaner, less-completely-fucking-hopeless Blackburn, and he might be right. There are some genuine causes for hope. Rovers certainly don't have too many problems finding the net – at time of writing, they sit as the league's seventh highest scorers, both their victories this term (at home to Arsenal and Swansea) arriving courtesy of impressive four-goal hauls. Unfortunately, only Bolton have conceded more. In light of these facts, Kean's assertions may hold water, and in truth most teams would struggle for frugality when deprived of Ryan Nelson, Gael Givet and Martin Olsson.

The grim truth remains, however, that until Swansea's defeat at Goodison Park the following evening, Rovers hadn't beaten any of the teams occupying the seven places directly above them, and from the season's seventeen fixtures a meagre ten points have been collected. In truth, Owen Coyle, Kean's victorious counterpart on Tuesday night, hasn't fared much better, his troupe 'boasting' only two more points and an inferior goal difference, and yet while he hasn't exactly been immune from criticism, Coyle hasn't had the mob beating a path to his door either.

This could be for a variety of reasons. Timing is probably the main one. Coyle was lucky enough to replace Gary Megson, a man whose arrival at a club is generally greeted with a level of celebration usually reserved for managing to fit all your shopping into the fridge without having to rearrange the vegetable drawer. Kean, meanwhile, took over from ex-Trotters commander-in-chief Sam Allardyce, the most misunderstood/startlingly delusional (delete as appropriate) manager in Premier League history, with Rovers sitting comfortably in 13th. It should be noted that Megson left Wanders exactly midway through the 2009/10 season, with a haul of 18 points from 18 games – a tally impossible for Coyle to replicate this year. Goodwill, it seems, can be as much inherited as it can earned.

Kean's other big problem has been his signings. He has by and large recruited players of skill and artistry, investments in potential with the aim of playing the kind of football needed to arrive at Venky's off-quoted, much-mocked fourth-place dreamland. But moving up the league is more often than not a gradual process, one requiring much graft and no little elbow grease and Blackburn, especially shorn of those aforementioned defenders, are currently in low supply of both.

The faintest of praise sprinkled on Blackburn this season has been that they haven't been playing too badly, a perhaps unwittingly backhanded compliment highlighting Kean's choice of signings as much as his apparent naivety towards the scale of the task now facing him. Whilst some of the play may have been pretty, the results sure haven't. Tellingly, following their 2-2 draw at Molineux the very same night, Norwich boss Paul Lambert appeared unmoved by the praise heaped on his skilful side, stating that he'd happily see his charges play ugly and stay up. “I don't want to get admired and get relegated”, he claimed. As things stand for Kean, the first part is very much in the bag.

~ Matt

A Few Words On Gary Speed

It has been a sad week or so for anyone with football in their hearts, jolted awake as we were last Sunday to the news that Gary Speed – Premier League legend and Welsh national team manager – had died, having apparently taken his own life at the age of 42. Within minutes of the news breaking TV, radio and the internet was awash with tributes, from those who knew him personally and from those who simply knew him as a fantastic practitioner of his chosen art. From amidst this sea of sadness flooded forth words which painted an impression of a gifted yet gentle man; a charmer and a genuinely revered model professional with so much still to give.

The reasons behind Speed’s death are as yet unclear, and it would be unfair and disrespectful to speculate too wildly as to their nature. What I do feel comfortable saying is that, having observed the immediate aftermath, the issue of mental well-being amongst footballers has been troubling close to the headlines in recent weeks

The widespread presumption has been that Speed’s suicide was an act born of clinical depression. As I say, we don't know if this affliction has any direct link at all to Speed, but many of us have felt a somewhat chilling sense of unease at the preceding days' discussion of depression by professional sportsman. On Saturday the Guardian's always-enlightening Secret Footballer spoke of his own diagnosis in 2002. Hours earlier – and even more eye-openingly – Stan Collymore had followed up some worrying Twitter postings with a harrowing account about a recent bout of depression, which you can read for yourselves here.

Collymore's troubled past has been exhaustively documented, but over the years he has taken it upon himself to speak out about his health issues. Regardless of any direct link to Speed specifically, there seems to have been a greater willingness in recent times to speak openly and frankly about health problems which go beyond a tweaked hamstring or broken metatarsal. The confirmation from Tony Adams' Sporting Chance clinic that at least ten current professionals have contacted them to seek advice on their own troubles in the sad hours since Speed’s passing suggests that some invisible barrier may be on the verge of being pushed away, hopefully replaced with an air of frankness and honesty within the public footballing discourse.

There is an encouraging precedent for this kind of development. German football has had it's episodes of real and near-tragedy in recent years, the most notable being the suicide two years ago of national team keeper Robert Enke. Only weeks ago referee Babak Rafati was discovered just hours before he was due to take charge of a Bundesliga tie, having apparently attempted suicide and failed. Germany has also dealt with a high-profile case of depression. Following a spate of terrible injuries, midfielder Sebastien Deisler was diagnosed in 2004, his various health battles eventually leading to his retirement at the age of 27. Enke's passing in particular triggered a reaction in Germany. Ronald Reng, who received the William Hill Sports Book of The Year award (the day after Speed's death, no less) for his account of his friend Enke's life, has stated that players had previously found it difficult to publicly communicate the desperate pressures which it appears with hindsight were unknowingly commonplace. But, says Reng, things have improved. “After Robert's death the network of sports psychologists is much better. There are helplines, there is much higher awareness.”

The overriding feeling from those in the know is that Germany is witnessing a profound shift. In England, the abstract notion of the 'footballing community' is a commonly mentioned one, and it's true that in tough times it can act like any other: it can be a guiding hand; a strong network of support, but it can also be prickly and, at worst, downright self-serving. But the day of Speed's death really did feel like a close-knit community had lost a dear friend, the widespread grief palpable and felt beyond the sporting world. These terrible instances in Germany seem to have reminded football once more that life is brittle no matter who you are or what you do. The most celebrated players on the planet, the ones whose lifestyles and pay-checks we envy, regularly experience moments of great success and adoration. The message which Germany has embraced is that they, like all of us in our darkest hours, are also capable of looking in the mirror and seeing very little staring back. Over the past week the FA have sent out 50,000 booklets to ex-players containing advice on coping with depression. It's certainly a start.

As I say though, no one really knows how much of this debate relates to Gary Speed at all, and to speculate would be to do a disservice to his memory and to those he leaves behind. So what of Speed contributions to the beautiful game? The basic facts are as multitudinous as they are impressive. He was a versatile midfielder of energy and ability, with a knack for goals of all kinds and a one-time appearance record holder for both league and country. A captain of every team he’d played for along the way, Speed won the old First Division title in 1992 with Leeds United, before going on to score in every Premier League season in which he played, a remarkable feat only since bettered by his compatriot Ryan Giggs.

But it seems obvious that Speed’s legacy will go well beyond mere statistical analysis. In life’s grand scheme, football obviously ranks fairly low down on the scale of important things, but that's not to say that those involved do not hold it in high regard. From all the moving tributes paid to Speed, the one thing it's easy to gleam is that he carried out his job with great pride.

The moment at the Liberty Stadium when the pre-match minute’s silence erupted into rapturous applause and the spontaneous singing of Speeds name became a scene repeated at grounds across the UK throughout the week, and clubs were united in their mourning once more this weekend. When it happened in Swansea, mere hours after the world learnt of Speed's fate, it felt less like an outpouring of grief and more like a moment of genuine, heartfelt celebration and gratitude for what Speed had given the game. It spoke with a clarity no obituary ever could.

Last Sunday evening I, along with millions of others, listened with a heavy heart to BBC Radio Five Live’s exceptional 606 tribute show as a Leeds supporter recounted a tale of travelling across country with his son to see his team play, only to arrive at Elland Road to find the game sold out. Spotting Speed, and having previously encountered him a year or more previously, the supporter asked – more in hope than expectation – if he could pull any strings. Within minutes, the Welshman had retuned grasping two of Eric Cantona’s spare allocation. Their paths crossed again in the future, and Speed never forgot the man's name.

Stories of this ilk continued to be told throughout the show. As I listened it became increasingly clear that Speed saw and understood the significance of what he was involved in, and how much it mattered to those who could only ever dream of living in his boots. It seems apparent that he fully appreciated the high regarded in which he and his fellow exponents of the game were held, and when it came to the simple, privileged task of being a professional footballer, he was determined not to disappoint. For the record, he never did.

~ Matt

www.thefa.com/TheFA/WhatWeDo/Equality/MentalHealth/newsandfeatures/2011/Mental-Health-introduction

www.sportingchanceclinic.com/

I Got You, AVB

Let's face it: life is but a series of repetitions. Each day begins with a shrieking alarm call callously ripping us from our merry dream worlds, the jarring prelude to gazing vacantly at the ceiling for as long as our snooze button will allow us. From there it’s onto the bathroom to tease a few drops of hot water from the shower before huddling foetus-like against the cold tiles, the nozzle’s cascade merging with our weary tears. Then it’s off to work – tea, emails, fag breaks, phone calls, lunch, more emails, home, dinner. Day in, day out. Work, sleep, rinse, repeat.

But then comes the heady relief of the weekend – a forty-eight hour offering from the heavens when alarms are turned off and breakfast is regally feasted upon in the early afternoon, while the comfort blanket of football envelopes us like the arms of a long lost love, it's touch a cool balm for our workaday wounds.

When you look at things this way, it’s actually quite comforting to know that multi-gazillionaire Roman Abramovich leads much the same life that we do. He also knows only too well the soul-sapping drudgery of being trapped in a hopelessly replaying loop. For you see, Abramovich emerges daily into the kind of world Bill Murray strove so desperately to escape from in the harrowing metaphysical treatise Groundhog Day.

While Murray's world-weary TV weather anchor Phil Connors found himself marooned in a frosty netherworld somewhere between Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania and the darkest depths of his own despair, Abramovich routinely awakens to the crushing realisation that he too is stuck in a forever-repeating realm of his own making; a closed-circuit, locked groove of an existence where managers are hired and fired without foresight or patience. His club's recent results – consecutive home humblings to Arsenal and Liverpool, the ill-tempered derby defeat to QPR, and a late Champions League reverse in Leverkusen – have left him staring into a familiar existential abyss.

The problem for Roman is that living each day in nothing more than a maddening temporal hiccup has taught him absolutely zip. Finding himself regularly disillusioned with his choice of manager, he just picks a new one, safe in the knowledge that should it all go Scolari-shaped he can just find himself a replacement and damn the consequences. But if quasi-sci-fi family films of yore have taught me anything (and you can be the judge of that) it's that all actions have consequences. And for Roman it's the same one – over and over and over again.

All of which has considerable knock-on repercussions for poor Andrés Villas-Boas. Just as Andie MacDowell's plucky producer Rita became an unwitting accomplice to Connors' never-ending existential farce, so young Villas-Boas is the latest individual to find himself sinking into Abramovich's unrelenting mental quagmire. Not four months ago he was an ambitious, über successful young manager, arriving in England with a host of trophies and a rather dashing line in five o'clock shadow. All of a sudden that Primeira Liga medal means very little indeed and that once rugged fizzog of his increasingly resembles the concept of 'hopelessness' as fashioned from dry timber by a psychopath.

The fact that some of his players are most definitely showing their age is perhaps the only sign that life on the King’s Road is proceeding in any sort of regular fashion at all. He still bounces up and down on the touchline like a frog dancing on hot coals, but this no longer feels like a show of raw enthusiasm but rather a display of shredded nerves, which is fair enough really, especially when you've been tasked with teaching David Luiz about the offside trap.

Others too have become unsuspecting characters in the Russian's perpetual motion nightmare. Take Fernando Torres. He was happy once, floating about Merseyside in a bubble of bonhomie, his lovely locks a-flowing, scoring wonderful goals with the regularity with which us normal folk break wind. But then he wandered too close to Roman's space/time continuum and now he is trapped, destined to fluff his lines in front of goal for the rest of his days. 

Such is the mighty power of Abramovich's all-consuming purgatorial orbit, I’m worried that eventually all of us will be sucked into it too, like nail clippings towards a Dyson. Maybe it's actually happened. Maybe our yesterday was merely an illusion. Maybe we are already ensnared, doomed to be little more than passers-by in a parallel world formed purely from the stubbornness of one man's mind. Really puts things into perspective, doesn't it?

But wait, for all is not lost. There is of course one man who can rescue Abramovich from his personal limbo, and that man is Abramovich himself. Connors broke the spell of repetition by examining his life and evaluating his faults, learning and growing and gradually becoming a better man; a more patient, tolerant and loving human being. For Chelsea to smash their hire-sack-hire curse, Abramovich needs to embrace change in a gargantuan fashion. It won't be easy, but if he pays attention to the script it is certainly doable.

He'll need to start by engaging a little more with the local community. He should let them keep their stadium for starters. After that he could pay a friendly visit to the pensioners or volunteer at a local junior school (or failing that, just buy the kids a new one). He should also start to feed the homeless, learn jazz piano and be prepared to perform the Heimlich Manoeuvre on choking diners.

Eventually these selfless deeds will trigger a change somewhere deep inside, opening his eyes to the folly of his ways, at last finding it in his heart to grant a manager the time and freedom to shape a team worthy of the supporter’s faith. And we should do everything we can to help. Next time you see him in the street, perform a simple act of kindness. Nothing that'll get you arrested for public indecency – just compliment him on his shoes or offer him a Minstrel. Show him what it's like to feel humanity's warm embrace. We must all be vigilant, or it won't just be six more weeks of winter we'll be facing, but a lifetime spent reliving the same fate, from one day to the next, for all eternity. As if we don't have enough of that already. 

~ Matt

International Rescue

“Coming up, England's first training session of the week – and we'll be there live!” Slouched in front of the TV, nursing a cold and contemplating a late breakfast, this was not the 11am Sky Sports News bulletin I was hoping for. “Join us as we watch John Terry go for a jog, Gareth Barry wiggle his hips about, and Jack Rodwell struggle with a bib so bright you could probably see it from space”, the reporter failed to add, although he might as well have, for that was as far as the coverage was allowed to go. As (training) pitch-side pundit Ray Parlour described how Gabby Agbonlahor will be settling back in nicely because he's mates with Darren Bent, a metaphorical media blackout was instigated, almost certainly for the good of Queen and country.

Any further coverage would have been akin to giving away state secrets. Good decision, if you ask me. Heaven only knows what could've happened if some crafty Spanish agent had snuck his way past security to snaffle crucial bits of information. He'd no doubt have scurried back to his Aston Martin, where at the push of a button he could have turned the dashboard into an HD video link to Spanish HQ, ready to brief Vincente del Bosque on James Milner's off-the-pace performance during the shuttle runs.

Let's be honest, the good people at Sky were desperately trying to inject a little tension, or even some mild interest, into the build up to England's upcoming friendlies with Spain and Sweden. Unfortunately, most of the drama surrounding England these days only involves ball-kicking in a metaphorical sense. Over the last fortnight we've watched with increasing despair as Terrygate (Version 2.0) and Poppyfarce have stolen the back pages, with very little copy produced for the matches themselves.

But shouldn't we be excited by these games? Spain, as we're all too aware, pretty much represent the zenith of footballing capability right now – world and European champions, home to a gleaming, apparently never-ending well of talent. Sweden, meanwhile, have been a constant, peripheral presence during my England-following life. Via Tomas Brolin's pop-inspiring strike at Euro 92, an epic six-goal thriller in 1995's Umbro Cup, a heated 2-1 reverse in a Euro 2000 qualifier and an opening World Cup encounter in Saitama in 2002, the Swedes have been a thorn in England's side for two decades now. By all logic, we should be looking forward to this double-header. But we're not, are we?

Such is the quality and supposed all-importance of the both the Premier and Champion's Leagues, international football is no longer the showcase for global footballing talent that it used to be. Dredge up your earliest memories of international football and you'll recall the magisterial brilliance of the likes of Baggio, Romario, Batistuta, Milla and Hagi – semi-mythical sporting beasts of whom we were permitted a fleeting glimpse every few years. International football had all-star appeal, the joy of watching a fantasy team of the best club parts assembled into one globe-trotting whole. Not so any more. We can watch Lionel Messi, Wesley Sneijder, David Silva or Cristiano Ronaldo just about any night of the week we like, and we can do so as they face each other in the increasingly insular Champions League.

Put simply, international football used to be the place to see the crème de la crème, and now it isn't. But that shouldn't really be enough to take it to the point it finds itself at now, a point where some would rather wait patiently for the international break to be over than actually engage with the games taking place.

So what's the problem? Well for one thing those fabled thirty years of hurt have become forty-one – seven more tournaments have come and gone with nothing better than a few quarter finals to show for it. Now I'm not for a minute arguing that England have any kind of right to be progressing to the finals of major tournaments, but I think some of our frustration comes from the disproportionate success of the English club game. The Premier League is marketed, marketed and marketed some more as the best domestic competition in the world, beamed directly into homes across hundreds of countries worldwide while the national team – in terms of skill and in terms of success – has gotten left behind.

The players found within the English top flight are among the most talked about, debated, hated and loved in the world. Furthermore, off-field dalliances now take on an aura of soap opera scandal, perpetuated by a modern media hungry for fresh meat in an age where the internet can make, break and conclude a story before the ink is dry on the traditional morning edition. Rich investors from across the globe have taken charge of clubs, bringing with them, in no particular order, star players, huge transfer fees, brand promotion and uncertain debt levels, upping the spotlight wattage further still. Drama, personalities, money and entertainment – a loopy cocktail that the international game just can't compete with.

Maybe it's also something to do with the people we are meant to be supporting when England take to the field. Every sport – nay, every walk of life – has it's pantomime villains, but when the lines between loyalty, rivalry and straight-up hatred become blurred, it's not always easy to cheer on that centre-forward who on any other weekend you'd be calling a money-grabbing, morally-vacuous shitheap.

The rivalry and revulsion between club supporters is plastered everywhere, played up to and encouraged by Sky and broadcasters at large, broadcasters who have comparatively little invested in the national game anyway, where a failure every two or four years isn't quite as lucrative as a Premier League season, where each May triumph is guaranteed for someone. It's understandable that, having been fed all this, a young Arsenal supporter may find it tricky to rekindle their affection for Ashley Cole, and likewise cheering on Wayne Rooney becomes quite the awkward chore for the Liverpool diehard. But perhaps the most telling emotion is the one that a growing number of football fans feel towards the spectacle of international competition – indifference.

So international football has multitudinous obstacles to overcome. It is no longer a looking-glass through which we can leap into a wonderland of foreign footballing wizardry, and it carries the weight of repeated failure on it's bruised shoulders. It seems that for many England supporters the conclusion is simple: we're fated to disappoint, so why bother getting excited in the first place? Of course, this does tend to change when the tournaments actually come around – a World Cup is still a World Cup, no matter how jaded folk feel towards the preceding friendlies and all the associated nonsense and non-stories.

But it's clear to me that some repairs need to be carried out. Each season someone raises the idea that we'd be better off reshaping the international calender, and this may be a good place to start. Why not set aside fewer longer periods wherein the majority of qualifiers can take place? A qualification triple-header, for instance, with nine points riding on it would not only eradicate much of the tiresome club-versus-country bickering, but could inculcate a sort of 'mini tournament' atmosphere too. What's more, the subsequent comparative scarcity of international breaks may make those occasions when friendlies do occur all the more enticing – an intriguing novelty rather than just another Wednesday night substitution-fest when we could be watching Barcelona pummel Dynamo Chernobyl to a pulp instead.

While we're at it, why not bring back 'B' Internationals? Play them in the same week, and let the coaching teams examine potential squad members first hand without diluting the appeal of the main fixture. Or perhaps we could introduce a Three Lions Lottery, where members of the public pay a fiver and if they're picked out of a hat (by Sir Trevor Brooking) they get to come on and play stoppage time? What a great way to reconnect the England team with the people!

Ah, I went too far didn't I? Maybe it's this darned cold making me all hot-brained. Or maybe I'm just bored – it is an international week after all.

~ Matt

The Official Look Away Now Team Of The Season (So Far)

In many ways it has been a topsy-turvy old start to the season. At time of writing two of the newly promoted trio are sitting pretty in the top half of the table, while unfancied Newcastle occupy a Champions League spot. Arsenal have climbed their way back up into contention following their worst start to a league campaign in nearly twenty years, Chelsea have failed to keep a clean sheet in the league since the opening weekend, reigning champions Manchester United have played both humiliater and humiliatee in two games which will be remembered as the stuff of Premier League legend, and Liverpool don't appear to be on the verge of implosion. Strange days indeed.

Having said all that, when you tilt your head the other way some familiar patterns take shape. Last season's top six are obstructed in their unification only by the aforementioned Toon, while perennial strugglers Blackburn and Wigan are languishing once more.

Now that around a quarter of the campaign has flashed before our eyes, the time feels right to evaluate some of the star performers of the Premier League's opening weeks. Below you'll find some familiar favourites, some flourishing fresh faces, the heartening rebirth of one or two recent under-achievers, and even the odd throwback to more innocent times. Pray silence please for Look Away Now's team of the season so far...

* * *

Wojciech Szczesny (Arsenal)

When your goalkeeper emerges from an 8-2 defeat as arguably your sole creditable performer of the day, you know you’re in trouble. This was the position young Wojciech Szczesny found himself in following Arsenal's hide-tanning at Old Trafford back in late August. In truth, the youngster has been one of the few bright sparks in Arsenal's largely fizzle-less campaign thus far. What he lacks in years (and vowels) he makes up for in a progressively confident stewardship of his area and a penchant for high class shot-stopping, as evidenced in Udine and Dortmund.

Having recovered from a potentially career-threatening double-arm break a few years back, and at one point finding himself behind fellow countryman Lukasz Fabianski in the club's goalkeeping pecking order, Szczesny has now successfully manoeuvred himself into Pole position (sorry). His back four may be in a seemingly constant state of flux, but Arsene Wenger at least knows his net may have a reliable incumbent for the foreseeable future.

Micah Richards (Manchester City)

Micah Richards made his first team debut for Manchester City over six years ago at the tender age of 17, picking up his first cap for England a year later in 2006. Many thought that England had found a powerful defender capable of adding speed and strength in abundance to an ageing defence. 

The following years haven’t been quite as perfect as was anticipated for the defender. There were injuries, dips in form and spells on the side-line. Still only 23 he seems to be removing the lapses in concentration that have blighted his defending and his powerful surges up the touchline and increasingly incisive final ball surely make him a key contender to the right back berth at Euro 2012 – he only has to win over Fabio Capello.

Kyle Walker (Tottenham)

It is possible Kyle Walker will be looking to use his lighting pace to nip ahead of Richards come June. While there has been a defensive naivety to his positioning when asked to cover a mistake, he is so quick over ten yards that he is rarely beaten. It was this pace that stifled Juan Mata when the pair came up against each other in the U21 European Championships this summer, a performance that was an early indication that this season he can offer more than just blunderbuss runs down the line.

Last season his loan spell at Aston Villa alerted everyone to his attacking prowess but after quickly locking down the role as first team right back Walker has begun to really mature, learning when to go and when to hold the line. Taking into account Martin Kelly at Liverpool, England suddenly have a wealth of fullback talent at their disposal.

Chris Smalling (Manchester United)

“Occupation: Manchester United defender”. It's fair to say that if that sentence is at the top of your CV, then you probably haven't been having the best of times recently. After that result, questions have quite reasonably been asked of Sir Alex Ferguson's team, not least where it's disconcertingly leaky rearguard is concerned, which in recent times has been patched up more times than the Greek economy. With doubts over the long-term future of Rio Ferdinand growing by the week, this 21 year old who three years ago was plying his trade with Maidstone United has risen to the rank of first-choice at Old Trafford, with two England caps to boot.

If eyebrows were raised over United's decision to splash £12m on a man with only 13 league appearances under his belt, then those same brows have certainly softened as Smalling has rapidly shown himself to be not just a natural guardsman, but also one of those rare breeds of English defenders – namely, one who can play a bit too. A cool, collected reader of the game, and apparently mature beyond his fledgling years, Smalling appears to have a head for the league's giddy heights – even if all around him are losing theirs.

Jose Enrique (Liverpool)

Like the Bermuda Triangle or Simon Cowell’s heart, the left side of Liverpool’s defence is one of those freakish anomalies of the natural world; an apparently gaping vortex of unknown atomic property, where previously thriving life-forces find themselves sucked into matter-less oblivion. The last decade or so has seen several players of great skill and potential (and Paul Konchesky) try to add some balance and stability to this most problematic of positions. Christian Ziege, Fabio Aurelio, Steve Finnan, John Arne Riise and others have all had a go with varying degrees of success, but at last they seem to have happened upon a bona fide solution.

Jose Enrique, plucked from Newcastle United for the bargain sum of £5.5m, looks a natural fit. Calm and cunning under pressure, quick and imaginative when pushing on, the Spaniard has contributed as much offensively as he has defensively so far this term. With three assists notched up in his first ten appearances and having racked up Fantasy League points aplenty, Jose has quickly become one of Look Away Now’s favourite Kop idols. The fact that he isn’t a complete chopper like Luis Suarez doesn’t hurt either.

Yohan Cabaye (Newcastle United)

Alan Pardew is affecting a type of Gallic revolution on the Tyne and central to it has been Yohan Cabaye. Partnered with Cheick Tioté, Cabaye has formed the type of midfield unit that has opposition scouts leaving St. James Park with scribbled notes about playing around and certainly not through the Newcastle United central midfield.

Cabaye’s velvet touch and clear vision have been key factors in Newcastle’s wonderful start to the season, keeping the ball moving and distributing the spoils of Tioté’s frequent midfield muggings. With three assists and a goal already to his name he has taken no time in filling Kevin Nolan’s vacant shirt and with Hatem Ben Arfa returning from a long lay-off, things could just be getting started for Cabaye and United.

Alejandro Faurlin (QPR)

It could have all been so different for Alejandro Faurlin. With the rest of the Championship choking on their dust, QPR’s ruthless march to the Premier League was rocked last spring when the Argentinian found himself at the dark heart of a third party ownership dispute which threatened to derail their ascent. It was unwanted attention for the quiet, considered midfield maestro, whose very presence in England looked for a while like overshadowing all Neil Warnock’s team’s good work.

Eventually QPR received a fine but no point deduction, and Faurlin is now fast approaching a century of appearances for the Londoners in a shade over two years. A patient and composed midfield orchestrator, Faurlin’s game is about retention – of the ball, but also of his team’s composure, especially with the egos of Adel Taraabt and Joey Barton permanently on the brink of tectonic shift. For all their wealth, Warnock still has one hell of a task to keep Rangers up, but on an island of volcanic magnitude, Faurlin represents a welcome pool of tranquillity.

Scott Parker (Tottenham)

Scott Parker has begun life at Tottenham in much the same fashion as he ended it at West Ham. There his Atlas effort wasn't enough to carry the team away from relegation, but with Spurs his battering ram mentality has scattered opposition players, creating openings for their myriad tricksters to waltz through. Even off the ball he eludes the kind of regimented, steel-lipped fortitude that our great grandparents thought of as The British Way.

At times it can seem as if Parker is posing for an artist who is sculpting from marble his effigy in worship of his heroic midfield tendencies. It is this blood-and-guts resilience and concrete leadership that have been his biggest assets to a Spurs midfield that was already packed with talent. Those who claimed he was a big fish in a small pond last season are coming to accept that he has matured into a midfielder more than capable of holding his own amongst the best.

David Silva (Manchester City)

The moment on Sunday 23rd October 2011, when David Silva trapped a clearance on the Old Trafford halfway line before releasing Edin Dzeko to complete Manchester United's derby day misery, perhaps spoke louder than anything else where the current reassessment of the Manchester footballing power balance is concerned. More than a few United supporters have questioned Sir Alex's decision not to bring in a top calibre central midfield performer this summer – a replacement, in essence, for Paul Scholes. Someone of intelligence and guile. Someone who can pick the tightest of defensive locks. Someone, in short, like Silva.

Since his arrival at Eastlands, the dynamic Spaniard (although what kind of Spaniard isn't dynamic these days?) has been the brains behind the majority of his teams’ most incisive moments, dovetailing seamlessly with whatever combination of pricey attacking talent has been laid out in front of him. Silva also represents a potentially crucial piece of a bigger picture. Whilst no man has ever won a title single-handedly, plenty of successful sides have been built around a talisman of such undoubted quality. Silva has helped City beat a path to United's door. The journey isn't over yet, but when it is, the rewards may be golden.

Gabriel Agbonlahor (Aston Villa)

The 2011/12 season represents Gabriel Agbonlahor's seventh campaign in top flight football, which if nothing else makes Look Away Now feel excruciatingly old. At a comparatively cherubic 25, the Aston Villa forward's new lease of life under Alex McLeish has seen him finally turn that raw pace and undoubted potential into something a little more durable. In the process he's helped Big Eck win over supporters who were less than chuffed when he about-faced from (freshly relegated) Birmingham City.

Never the most prolific of scorers, Agbonlahor has added a consistency in front of goal to his armoury, leading to calls for a full England cap, which he'd possibly already have were it not for an injury before the final Euro 2012 qualifier in Montenegro. A distinguished sprinter in his youth, Agbonlahor's four goals and four assists in ten league appearances suggest a player coming of age when his club, shorn of England duo Ashley Young and Stewart Downing over the summer, needed him to step up. Truly time does fly – although if anyone can catch it, it's probably our Gabby.

Robin van Persie (Arsenal)

Where would Arsenal be without Robin van Persie? Well, if you remove his goals this term from the equation, the answer would be, quite simply, “16th”. His influence, however, runs deeper than that. Top-scorer, captain, inspiration and probably the only remaining member of Arsenal’s ranks you could confidently term ‘world class’, van Persie’s 28 goals in 27 league games this calendar year only goes to underline the Dutchman’s value to the Gunners.

Arsene Wenger’s problem (well, one of them) in recent years has been keeping van Persie fit following a seemingly endless array of injuries. As the Frenchman’s gossamer-fragile squad struggles under the weight of its knocks and niggles, van Persie has come through the first ten weeks of the season relatively unscathed. Many would argue that van Persie isn’t what you’d call a natural leader, certainly not in the Adams/Vieira mould, but what he’s doing is leading by example, dragging the Gunners up the league table by the collar. Rested initially for the recent visit of Stoke, van Persie was eventually summoned from the bench to perform a rescue act, but you can forgive Wenger for swaddling him in cotton wool. The Frenchman must grimace every time Robin receives a strong tackle in training – but then again, he probably doesn’t watch the Dutch squad train anyway.

Manager: Paul Lamber (Norwich City)

When Look Away Now wakes these days, it half expects to find Lorraine McFly sat at the foot of the bed, ready to mop our fevered brow, pass comment on our underwear, and whisper sweet assurances that what we witnessed on Match of the Day last night was just a crazy dream, and that we're safe and sound now, back in good old 1992. The reason for such temporal befuddlement is Norwich City's crashing of the Premier League's top half, a feat so out of synch with the times that they might as well be doing it in a shell suit and a pair of BK Knights, while the latest 2 Unlimited offering pumps away in the background.

In assessing Norwich's renaissance one must inevitably tick off a few clichés. Plucky underdog status? Check. Loveable club with a friendly, provincial feel? No problem. Everything achieved on a modest budged while everyone else is spending money like it's going out of fashion? Stop it, you're killing us. But the key element to Norwich's rise is surely Paul Lambert, one of those managers with an apparently Midas touch. Having guided the Norfolk side through back-to-back promotions, Lambert's plan seems to involve his side playing with style and without fear in what can be an unforgiving league. And what's more, it appears to be working. Maybe there really is no limit after all.

~ Ed & Matt

Fight For Your Right To Parity

Following the bitter-sweet conclusion to England's Euro 2012 qualifying campaign, focus returned this past weekend (with no little relief, some would say) to all matters domestic, and what better way to restart than with, in Sir Alex Ferguson's words, the biggest club game in the world. Manchester United were travelling to Anfield for the first time since edging clear in the league titles stakes. Having been emphatically knocked from their perch over a painful twenty year period, Saturday's meeting heralded an era of unexplored bragging potential for the visiting fans.

The successes of both clubs on home and foreign turf have been utterly integral to the Premier League's claim to be The Best In The World. United's era of dominance arrived in tandem with the launch of the Premier League, while Liverpool's years of European rule captured imaginations in far flung corners of the globe in the days before satellite television and the internet. 

The first meeting of the season between English football's greatest success stories was bookended by two off-field topics of potentially equal controversy. The build up to the match had been dominated by Liverpool's managing director Ian Ayre floating the idea that foreign TV rights for the league should perhaps be negotiated on a club-by-club basis, as is the case in La Liga.  Meanwhile, Monday morning saw League Manager's Association chief Richard Bevan admit that the increase in foreign ownership may eventually result in pressure to alter the very fabric of the league by potentially moving towards a US-style franchise system, removing relegation and promotion and effectively making the top flight a closed shop.

Ayre was quoted in the national papers as saying that “If you are a Liverpool fan living in Liverpool you subscribe to Sky because you support Liverpool”, pushing his shovel firmly into the top soil, preparing to excavate. “If you're in Kuala Lumpur there isn't anyone subscribing to Astro or ESPN to watch Bolton, or if they are it's a very small number. The large majority are subscribing to watch Liverpool, Manchester United, Chelsea or Arsenal”, he continued, doing his best impersonation of a Harlem pimp pushing up the prices for his best girls. The essential thrust of Ayre's argument is that if those foreign types are only interested in the best of our selection, why should our less attractive sides be equally financially rewarded?

“Some people will say: 'Well you've got to all be in it to make it happen.', but isn't it really about where the revenue is coming from, which is the broadcaster, and isn't it really about who people want to watch on that channel?”, Ayre concluded, cocking his Fedora and buffing his diamond rings to a shine whilst Bolton and the other unfancied types shuffled off back to the street, lippy reapplied, ready to offer their services to that crucial Far East demographic.

And it's here that the subsequently-raised relegation issue begins to show it's significance. It's admittedly tough to deny that the average non-UK fan is tuning in to watch Luis Suarez rather than Nigel Reo Coker, but in order to see the Uruguayan strut his stuff, you’ve gotta make plans for Nigel too. US franchise logic could therefore dictate that the best way to progress would be to make sure the same opponents are lining up against Liverpool for those thirty-two other fixtures year after year. This could allow the clubs invited to the party to develop their own international identities without having to look over their shoulders and make sure no one else is about to barge in unannounced. So everybody wins, right? Well everyone except for the majority of English clubs, of course, but they aren't Ayre's primary concern.

One major problem is that Ayre has clearly seen the riches of Barcelona and Real Madrid and fancies a bit of that. They receive roughly one third of the Spanish TV rights but he'd do well to remember that they are but two clubs, and hold between them a highly concentrated level of appeal. If such a deal were to occur in England, you'd be looking at top priced rights being split between four, five, perhaps even six clubs. And membership of the top four is not permanent, as Spurs and Man City have shown over the past two years, which only complicates the issue further. Say, hypothetically, that Newcastle’s impressive form holds and they burst into the top four, maybe even staying there longer than a solitary season. Suddenly Newcastle versus Man City becomes a fixture of global interest, and if foreign broadcasters wish to invest money in such games then it will be to the financial detriment of Liverpool and others. Suddenly a whole new battles begins to rage – and no-one wants to risk Mike Ashley getting stroppy and thowing his lemon chicken about the place.

The broader concern for Liverpool is that having opted to secure their future with Fenway Sports Group after Hicks & Gillett had begun stripping the walls for copper wire, they have slipped behind somewhat in the global brand stakes. While their glorious past becomes increasingly more distant with every passing title-less year, so Manchester City have ridden the fast rail to global profitability. As so many of us have huffed and puffed in recent years, a club's long-forged identity can feel like it's becoming forever lost amongst the branding and the naming rights. Which is a shame, as Liverpool's new stance on the division of rewards reflects badly not just on the current regime, but on the club's proud community heritage too.

I like Liverpool and I like the history they have made for themselves. Anyone with football in their heart laments the sad shadow of tragedy that will forever follow one pace behind the club, but in the end this too is part of their history, and the club’s story – like all great stories – resolutely accepts the grief alongside the triumph and makes them what they are (something Manchester United has done too). Most clubs have their own wonderful tale to tell, but Liverpool’s, thanks to their successes, has been largely written in front of the eyes of the world – a child born into celebrity whose life is lived within permanent earshot of the paparazzo’s camera-click. Liverpool’s success gave them such fame, and all that subsequently befalls them – for good or bad – becomes part of the public discourse, which makes the noises emanating from the club all the more dispiriting.

I hope Liverpool's owners were watching carefully on Saturday. Having exchanged shoves and shimmies without really throwing a punch, Liverpool finally landed a blow with a quarter of the match remaining, the returning Steven Gerrard angling a freekick through Ryan Giggs' miraculously disappearing midriff and past the outstanding David de Gea. Gerrard raced to the crowd with five fingers aloft, a repost to the chants of the visiting fans, but also a salute to history, a declaration that past and present in football are eternally intertwined, a gesture made flesh by the Kop's contemporary hero.

United, stirred from their inactivity, introduced the big guns and, like so many times before, it paid off. Javier Hernandez, signed barely 18 months ago, celebrated his six yard equaliser like a man crossing the line for Olympic gold, lungs roaring, hand thrust chest-wards, clasping the club crest. He, like Gerrard, knew all too well what it meant. 

Clubs have been supposedly selling their souls for a while now, but selling the future of others is another thing entirely. In truth I genuinely can't see much support for Ayre's proposals from further down the league, as evidenced by Chelsea, Wigan and Manchester United speaking out in support of the current deal within hours of the Liverpool story surfacing. Rival clubs have been more vociferous still in their initial rejection of any potential relegation removal, hopefully a sign that somewhere beneath the pile of dollar bills a humble wad of common sense remains intact.

Following a week where John W Henry and the Fenway team had granted the press a good deal of access, it's no coincidence that they are now trying to stamp their own mark on the state of things. In trying to get their voice heard above the Manchester/London/Catalonia hubbub, they are perhaps aiming to remind the watching world that they remain part of the elite. The thing is, no one that really knows their football has ever thought differently. Good sides come and go – talented squads shine then dissipate – but the stuff of legend remains. Even those pesky Bolton fans know that.

~ Matt

You're Outspoken... But Not By Anyone I Know

Hands up if you miss Ian Holloway. I do, not that he's actually gone anywhere, he's merely passed over to the other side, sucked up into that swirling sporting vortex we pampered Prem supporters call “the Football League”. A few weeks back, slumped in front of the TV, I caught sight of the Bristolian Plato for the first time since Blackpool's brief top flight flirtation ended in a heartless dumping at Old Trafford four months ago. There he was all flustered and alert, eyes bulging, re-enacting his team's defending against Derby County via an uncanny impression of a distracted cow. I really bloody miss him.

I do hope Blackpool bounce back as soon as possible. At the risk of sounding ever so patronising, they’re the sort of team we need more of. Even the name – Blackpool – sounds unmistakably English: a bit murky, a bit damp, but they've got a lovely pier so it’s all fine. I’ve never actually been there of course, but I imagine it’s a town rife with deckchairs and taverns and men in well-millinered hats. I could be wrong. It could just be full of Tesco Metros and cheap cocaine, but that would be an insulting presumption and anyway this is my fantasy and I'll render it how I like thanks.

This is all just misdirection of course – what I really crave is Holloway. I had a dig or two last season, but as Joni Mitchell sang in her pre-Starbucks days, you don't know what you've got til it's gone, and by Jove she was on to something. Having watched Match Of The Day with a hangover at least three times this season, I can hereby confirm that the Premier League is missing Holloway's managerial madness. To my ears, the verbal fare offered up from the technical areas and the press rooms has so far been less than rousing. Maybe one of the incoming coaches can step up to the plate.

So who are the new personalities to take note of this term? Well first up we’ve got Andre Villas-Boas, heir apparent (as much as he tries to deny it) to Jose Mourinho, all expensive shirts and overactive knee joints – less Sunday Supplement, more GQ style section. A lot has been made of his age but being younger than some of your underlings is nothing unusual in this day and age. I’ve had bosses who were several years my junior, and it caused no difficulty or resentment at all. Nope. None. Anyway, he's had a bit of a pop at the Premier League officialdom in the last few days, so he seems to be settling in just fine.

Next up – Brendan Rogers! Yeah, him from Swansea. I’ll confess to knowing little of Mr Rodgers' talents. I’m aware he did well at Watford and had a brief, dodgy spell at Reading, but his current side play some nice stuff, and they're at last seeing a deserved goal return for their efforts. They equipped themselves well at Arsenal too and should consider themselves quite unlucky to have departed north London with nothing. Rogers also suffered the sad loss of his father recently, so it'd be unfair to look to him for too much in the way of dramatic utterances right now.

Perhaps most intriguing is Norwich City’s Paul Lambert. As a player Lambert was one of the rare breed of modern era Brits to find success abroad, not only starring in Borussia Dortmund's 1997 Champions League winning squad, but also featuring in the last Scottish side to play at the World Cup finals. As a manager he has rampaged his way through the leagues, but his media output so far this season has been, well, underwhelming. When quizzed about his side’s chances of avoiding an immediate return to the Championship, the Scot has offered little more than stern, non-committal, even dismissive responses. He’s no Holloway, to be sure.

With Villa-Boas denying he’s the reincarnation of The Special One and Lambert denying just about everyone and everything, our search for a little touchline showmanship continues. Of the familiar dugout dwellers, knees-up Harry Redknapp is always good for a sound bite or twelve, and Mick McCarthy’s gruff realism has stood the test of time better than his nose, but in truth few others have gotten my controversy receptors twitching.

The old favourites aren’t doing us too many favours. Arsene Wenger spends the whole time looking (understandably) troubled, while Kenny Dalglish, having been caught flailing early on, is now playing everything with the kind of straight bat that would make Geoff Boycott go all moist at the crease. Even Sir Alex Ferguson’s return from self-imposed media exile hasn’t seen sparks fly like we’d have hoped. To be honest I’m missing Mike Phelan, but then I've always harboured a closeted love for his smooth dome and cockeyed use of metaphor.

Others managerial ‘characters’ have lost a bit of their edge. Martin Jol seems to have knocked the chummy Euro-stoner “why can’t we all jusht get along?” patter on the head for now as Fulham search for something resembling a win, while Tony Pullis has gone all la-di-da since Jonathan Woodgate came to play for him. Neil Warnock tries his best to provoke, flitting fitfully between caring dad and enraged boss, defensive of his players yet unafraid to call a spade a fucking shovel, all the while maintaining the rueful smile of a man who knows the world is against him and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. Which it probably is. And there probably isn't.

Some are just lost causes. David Moyes will never do – his fixed glacial stare grows colder with every passing season, chilling the blood of all around him, a one man crusade against global warming. Roberto Martinez is far too nice and chock-full of praise: for his players, his owner, even Crystal Palace after they sent him packing from the League Cup. Dullsville.

Roberto Mancini just reminds me of a startled Italian schoolboy who won a trip to manage in England for a day and missed the connecting flight home. He’s only buying all these players because he thinks its part of the prize. He might even believe the whole thing’s just a dream, and that any minute now he’ll wake up on some abandoned baggage carousel, curled up all cosy in his oversized blazer, relieved that Garry Cook was just a tragicomic bit part from the in-flight movie.

It wasn't always like this – just think about the ones we've let go in recent years. There was Big Mad Uncle Phil Scolari, with his Gene Hackman ‘looks’ and casual homophobia, Rafa Benitez and his impressive line in well-scripted paranoia, and of course the sorely-missed Martin O’Neill, all self-depreciative quirk and steely over-achievement. You’d have a drink with O’Neil, but you’d also have one beast of a hangover. Truly these men were the life and soul of the party, albeit one that you'd be better off leaving before the strip poker got going.

But where there's life there's hope and we've managers out there in the football universe ready to fill this gaping entertainment void. Should a vacancy become available soon, Raymond Domenech would fit the bill perfectly. He's currently unemployed, French (read: glamorous) and would bring his unique brand of Gonzo management to the table, replacing tactics boards with star charts and only signing players born under a crescent moon. Maybe Neil Lennon would fancy a stint south of the border once the novelty of the bi-weekly Old Firm clash wears off. Opinionated, forthright, even a little bit violent – a sort of anti-Avram if you like. Sure he might try and smuggle Georgios Samaras across with him, but that's a price I'm willing to pay.

In the meantime let's hope the current bunch find their form before too long. We expect great things from our teams and from those in charge – and, true, we are but a month or so into the season – but football is entertainment and if things don't liven up in the dugout sharpish we might have to take a trip to Blackpool and find something to slip into Paul Lambert's Lucozade. It might be just what he needs – after all, it's a high pressure life whether topping the league or propping it up, and if it all goes wrong the reality must be one hell of a drag. For his own sake, if not for ours, I hope Mancini never wakes up.

~ Matt

King Kenny’s Mirage

The heat of hyperbole after the desert of recent failings created a mirage effect around Anfield this summer that seemed to suggest that shimmering silverware was on the horizon. Recent games have revealed that the team that Kenny Dalglish is assembling is still some way from challenging for major trophies. Yet to face either of the Manchester juggernauts, their assault in the upper echelons of the league seems to be fraying, displaying all too familiar signs of weakness.

Up front there is little doubt that Luis Suarez has been a canny acquisition; he adds a potent threat to a strike-force previously blunted by the sagging shoulders of Fernando Torres. His energy and ability on the ball pulls defences apart, allowing the players behind him to exploit the space. With Dirk Kuyt’s tireless endeavour and Stewart Downing’s delivery Liverpool are equipped with a fluid and dangerous attacking three.

It is Dalglish’s dogged defence of Carroll and his bizarre use of the England international that seem to upset the Anfield applecart. Bought for £35 million – all be it with money made from Torres’ sale - he seems to be played almost because of this fact rather than any tactical aim. Played at the fulcrum of an attack and using his forehead as an anvil to smash balls into waiting nets, Carroll undoubtedly has his uses. When Dalglish bought Charlie Adam and Downing in the summer the common held opinion was that Liverpool would be playing down the wings and accruing goals from crosses and set pieces. However, Liverpool, with Suarez in the team, have performed much better with the ball on the ground and it is to this strength that they should be playing.

Watching Carroll's performance against Tottenham, even in the first 25 minutes before Adam’s early bath, was a text book example of his lumbering appearances for Liverpool. He was off the pace and frequently drifting to either wing, picking up positions that he lacks the speed to be a threat from. He’s at his best muscling the centre backs off the ball, less good at sprinting for the corner flag and cutting inside. The worry for Liverpool must be that on the 31st January 2011 Dalglish was delivered an abundance of riches. With little forethought he suddenly had at his disposal two much sought after strikers. Here lies the conundrum that seems to be vexing Kenny. With their arrival the road before Dalglish seems to fork - one with Suarez as the man to build a team round, the other Carroll. The teams he has selected over the last nine months and the results garnered should have Liverpool firmly striding down the Suarez road, confident that over the crest of the hill lie pastures green. Watching the impact the now-departed Raul Meireles and Suarez had coming off the bench against Arsenal should have been a clear indicator to Dalglish. Instead he sold Meireles to a delighted Chelsea and reverted to shoehorning Carroll into a team who want to play football with a level of verve beyond his abilities. If Kenny had hung onto Meireles he could have played this midfield and attack against Tottenham:

-------------Adam-----Lucas-----------

---Kuyt------Meireles------Downing-

-----------------Suarez---------------

This would have ceded the aerial battle to Tottenham who, with King marshalling the line, are rarely breached with the route one approach, and instead crowded midfield, offering real pace on the break and guile in possession.

All of these issues are within Dalglish’s powers to resolve, he has the players at his disposal to be able to tweak his attack, either dropping Carroll or getting the team to play to his strengths, rather than expect him to play to Suarez’s.

Looking at the summer purchases the feeling is that Jordan Henderson is not the finished article but he is someone who will benefit from game time and coaching from Steve Clarke on the training ground. He is yet to display the brief form he came into last year for Sunderland, notably his domination of Chelsea. If Liverpool can strike upon a clear philosophy it will make it easier for their youngsters to form themselves into players that fit the mould. It is fellow midfield new recruit Charlie Adam that could be far more problematic for Liverpool. There is little doubt about his ability with a dead ball, however he has a tendency to aim his swinging boots not just at leathered spheres but at opponents ankles and knees. This penchant for the more violent aspects of the game have seen him pick up 13 yellow cards in his short time in the Premier League – only Newcastle’s Cheik Tiote has had more in the same period. As the broken ankle Gareth Bale sustained in Adam’s last game at White Hart Lane for Blackpool can testify too, the Scot has a mean streak that often oversteps the mark.

Blackpool fans last year often lamented Adam’s contributions; even with all the goals and assists his expansive game offered. The fan favourite was David Vaughan who many thought was more effective and as the season wore on and Adam’s passing became increasing hopeful, loosing position in 70 yard swipes rather than splitting open defences, Vaughan began to take the plaudits. The final note on Adam has to go to the stat that reveals that of the first four Premier League games this season; he has tried to score from the half way line in three. Wasteful.

This leaves the Liverpool defence, so easily cut apart at the weekend. This was the area may expected heavy investment in and when it finally came in the form of Jose Enrique and Sebastian Coates the needs appeared to have been met. South American pundits have ear marked Coates as being potentially a world class player having already won the Copa America with Uruguay in the summer. If Dalglish can settle on a partnership at the centre, be that with or without Carragher, who brings a combined package beyond his individual attributes, Liverpool should have enough to build a defence to make Pepe Reina sleep easier at night. Injuries have played their part and Liverpool will be much firmer when they can bring either Martin Kelly or Glen Johnson into the team. Even though Johnson is the senior player, Kelly’s displays at the back end of last season proved that should a defence need shoring up, it is his defensive qualities that need to be employed over the more adventurous Johnson.

It is still very early days for the revolution that Dalglish has put into motion and he will be given more time than many to put things right. It would take a monstrous slide down the table to turn the Kop against their King. Dalglish will surely lament that the run of form the team put together in the second half of last season could have been better placed. Should that have come at the start of a season the momentum and good spirit could have been enough to push much them higher in the table. As it is, Kenny’s mean spirited attack on the officials after the defeat to Stoke seems to have punctured the good will at the club and heralded in a more pragmatic view among fans and journalists. The allusions to a conspiracy against them from officials can leave the players feeling powerless in the face of external factors and any manager that voices them sounds bereft of ideas.

Dalglish should note that Alex Ferguson will frequently claim the media are against his team, this subtle difference means that the players think their performances will prove the journalists wrong, creating a perpetual siege mentality in a team that almost should be complacent such has their dominance been for two decades. Liverpool are still very much a work in progress and this season looks set to be one of transition, one where they need to establish a focus and the hope would be that with Gerrard’s imminent return a cohesive strategy will begin to form.

~Ed

Buying The Rumours, Selling The Facts

Football is a veritable breeding ground for weird rumours. There are the regular ones, like Kaka’s never-ending links to Spurs. And then there are the more bizarre ones – remember when a 40 year old Maradona was reportedly joining Dundee? Or how about that time when Alan Shearer was supposed to be getting the Newcastle job and.... oh. Well anyway, the one doing the rounds this past weekend – the one which would see Harry Redknapp installed as England manager once our Euro 2012 qualification is (hopefully) assured – struck a slightly different chord to usual. Namely, it’s so stupid that it wouldn’t surprise me one iota if the FA actually went through with it.

Having apparently sourced a few in-the-know bods at FA high command, The People inferred that Harry Redknapp was set to carry England through to the Euro 2012 finals (and perhaps beyond) on a feelgood wave of media-friendly cockney chirp. I guess the thinking here would be that getting Redknapp in would install some intangible sense of 'passion' amongst a group of players whose heads so readily dropped and hearts so easily wilted during the summer of 2010.

Whilst the logic at the heart of this rumour is profoundly warped, the underlying idea is inherently troubling. And it’s the collision of these two aspects which causes me to worry because, as we all know, logic has never been the FA’s forte. It would be very much in keeping with their perverse modus operandi to go ricocheting from one supposed 'type' of manager to another. Ever since Terry Venables disappeared down the Wembley tunnel for the final time, backdropped by a crestfallen Gazza, a strutting Andreas Moller and a tired and emotional Skinner & Baddiel, the FA have embarked on a series of ultimately doomed relationships.

Having initially embraced Glenn Hoddle's progressive ideas, the FA were forced into a rethink once some of his slightly less progressive ideas came to light. There followed the Dark Days of Keegan, when 'old' Wembley's crumbling façade echoed perfectly the shambolic standing of England's national side.

The promised blood and thunder of the “Geordie Messiah"’s reign turned out to be little more than tomato ketchup and an April shower, resulting in some truly regrettably moments. Remember Dennis Wise's spell as a left winger? How about Gareth Southgate fending for himself in the bleak wilderness of the holding midfield role? They were Kev’s babies. When the bepermed one decided to finally hit the showers – metaphorically or otherwise – the FA sought out someone who would add some continental flavouring to our erstwhile meat-n-potatoes footballing palate.

So in came Sven. Ah Sven, with his glasses and his charm and his two-banks-of-four. This was just what we needed, a footballing partner who could show us the world and open our eyes to the big ideas of the modern age. And it all started so well – back to the drawing board we went, enlightening ourselves with seemingly profound tactical ideas, gradually buying into the dream that we were privy to a golden generation. But what we thought was gravitas was just gold-rimmed illusion, and as over-familiarity bred contempt, the same old failings and failures came to pass. His rigidity and principles took England to three quarter-finals on the spin, and yet eventually proved his undoing, vainly seeking to squeeze some final drop of ingenuity from the long-exsanguinated Gerrard-Lampard axis.

Steve McClaren was meant to be the perfect tonic – an eager young thing with a respectable club CV, knowledge of the England set-up and, crucially, a UK passport. How could he fail? Quite spectacularly, as it turned out. If Keegan's appointment had been the rebound hook-up of the needy, the post-McClaren move for Capello was a repeat of the Keegan-to-Eriksson transition; the realisation that something a little more long-term and meaningful was needed.

Having sobbed and ached through these underachieving years, it would make little sense to fire now a manager who, over nearly two full qualifying campaigns, has a record which runs P17, W14, D2, L1. Of the twenty-one competitive matches played under him thus far, a mere two have been lost. To say England's showing under Capello in South Africa was underwhelming would be like describing Fernando Torres as looking a little off-colour, but the World Cup merely represented the mid-way point of Capello's mission. How quickly we leap about in righteous bluster when a team or club sack a manager before they've had a fair crack of the whip – think Ancelotti, think Hughton – and yet many amongst us would have happily seen Fab walk after the tepid performances of that summer. United in indignant rage we were, like feral stags in full charge, and yet where would it have gotten us?

It's not like Capello’s had it easy. Following the initial predictable rush of foreign coach faux-outrage, there came questions regarding (in no particular order) language barriers, tactical caution, captaincy-rotation and the continuing selection of Jermaine Jenas, all of which must’ve taken their toll. ‘Terrygate’ swiftly followed, essentially a lost episode of Footballer's Wives-made flesh, featuring armband-stripping, handshake-rejection and ex-girlfriend-shagging. Thankfully no-one died during intercourse (that we know of).

Then, of course, there was the World Cup. Were the players treated too strictly? Were they unwilling to meet the manger’s demands? Was there a lack of clear leadership? A dearth of technique and imagination? Perfectly pertinent questions all, but I'm not convinced Harry Redknapp is the answer to any of them, at least not right now.

We all know Redknapp is a cut above most when it comes to man-management, appreciative of the difference between an arm round the shoulder and a boot up the rear. But that's not really the point. What we've often been most critical of as a football supporting nation is the perceived short-sightedness of others. If 'arry is to be Capello's successor at some point, history, having repeated itself a few times now, will have already plotted the first few chapters of his reign. Depressingly, our reactions will be similarly predisposed. Redknapp isn't foreign, so he won’t have to worry about the thinly-veiled xenophobia. No, he's English, so after celebrating that for a while we'll take to battering him for liking 4-4-2, which Eriksson and Capello did too but they pronounced it funny so that threw us off the scent for a bit.

It's taken a while, but Capello seems to finally be getting the picture, which would make kicking him into touch now all the more baffling. In recent months we've seen Jack Wilshire, Joe Hart, Stewart Downing, Chris Smalling, Ashley Young and Gary Cahill become England regulars, a sure sign that Capello understands the need to balance the requirements of today with the challenges of tomorrow and beyond. The performances of our youngsters so far this term suggests that, after countless false dawns, England may – may – have finally started bringing through players who are not only comfortable on the ball, but comfortable in their own heads too.

Once next summer has passed, Redknapp's time may have come, and he’ll be tasked with imprinting his own style on the team, as he has with great aplomb at Spurs. So he’s got that to look forward to, and so much more besides. In the meantime let us accept that England won't win the European Championships (I'm reliably told the Spanish and the Germans can play a bit these days) and remain confident that if Capello is allowed to continue on his current path we won't exhibit the same creative flaccidity that we did in South Africa either. That, rumour has it, is called progress.

~ Matt