Friday 26 August 2011

Monday Night Fever

The history of televised football is a long and (arguably) fascinating one, but seeing as I have an actual job to do, I won’t bother going into it here. Needless to say, Sky and its well-heeled, no-nonsense presenting troupe have been a highly visible presence along the way. I say ‘no-nonsense’ – that much was true until about eight months ago, when long-serving anchor duo Richard Keys and Andy Gray were a) dramatically ensnared as victims of a conniving plot conjured by jealous subordinates, or b) finally called out as the pre-historic, woman-hating knuckle-draggers they are and got their arses handed to them on a plate (delete as appropriate). Either way, the corporation's image most definitely took a sizeable knock.

Back when the Premier League made its bow in 1992, Sky’s Monday Night Football show was pitched as the ideological equivalent of its NFL namesake: a mouth-watering feast of dancing girls, fireworks and Simple Minds-soundtracked fist pumping, all dished up with a generous side of novelty. Football! On a Monday night! Quite the time to be alive.

Having decided to shift focus to the lucrative mid-week cash dispenser that is the Champions League, Sky’s Monday night game started to lose some of its vajazzle and when the ill-fated Setanta Sports pinched the rights in 2007, the spectacle, to the majority of sofa dwellers at least, more or less fizzled out entirely. But over the past year or so, it has crept back into view, gradually re-establishing a foothold in our already hectic soccer viewing schedule.

Now boasting a trendy acronym and the crisply blazered Ed Chamberlin, Monday Night Football (or ‘MNF’, as those workaholics in Murdoch’s marketing imaginatorium would have it known) is back with a vengeance. Chamberlin, with his minty-fresh eyes and welcoming hair, represents a safe (and depilated) pair of hands for the shows producers – you’re unlikely to find young Ed nudge-winking his way through an ad break as the work experience girl bends over to tape down a loose wire. Joining Chamberlin in the MNF control tower is former Manchester United and England defender Gary Neville: scourge of Liverpudlians and beard trimmers alike, now recast as expert summariser – the analytical yin to Chamberlin’s Autocue-ready yang.

Following a mixed online reaction to Neville’s MNF début at Manchester City the previous week, the moustachioed one’s second major challenge of the new season had arrived: casting his analytical eye over his boyhood club’s home game with Tottenham. Sky is of course no stranger to risking a little partisan analysis. Jaime Redknapp remains present (in body at least) during Liverpool games, Ray Wilkins can get a little dreamy and nostalgic during Chelsea fixtures, and who could realistically forget Mike Summerbee’s peculiar bout of statistics denial in the wake of February’s Manchester derby?

Nonetheless, it probably didn’t help Neville that, after a patchy and evenly-matched first hour, United turned on the style, a situation which could easily have resulted in more arse-licking submission than a night round Max Mosley's pad. But with the level-headed Chamberlin alongside, Neville held his own. He also proved especially adept at handling Sky’s Transcendental Interface of Football Dreams (or ‘STIFD’), gracefully dragging, dropping, slowing and circling like a seasoned user; the natural heir to Gray’s misogyny–encrusted throne (but without the hateful insecurity).

Down on the pitch, once United’s attack finally clicked, the new-look look front line resembled the selection one might find in a drawer of fine cutlery. Danny Welbeck is the knife – incisive and to the point – whilst Ashley Young is the fork, picking and prodding at whatever is served up in front of him. Wayne Rooney, meanwhile, is very much the dessert spoon: strong, shapely and with a face like a carnival mirror. Having exhausted this metaphor, let’s just say Nani is a bit like a tin opener and move on.

The second half quality displayed by Fergie’s latest fledglings was befitting of an occasion when two young presenting bucks also came of age. Ferguson was full of praise for his latest crop of upstarts as he spoke post-match (a privilege no longer exclusively Sky’s after Mike Phelan’s summer facial hair growth left Sir rethinking his interview ban with the Beeb). “We put him [Welbeck] on loan to Sunderland last season and that is when he became a man”, proclaimed Sir, misty-eyed at the bittersweet thought of finally replacing those faded photos of Nicky Butt in his wallet. Like Welbeck and Tom Cleverly, who combined for United’s opener, Ed and Gary are forming quite the double act, although self-confidence is admittedly something Neville has never exactly lacked.

“I played for twenty years and never got a handshake off the manager!” quipped Neville upon viewing Welbeck’s substitution, a cheeky bon mot eagerly greeted with a healthy-yet-professional chuckle from Chamberlin, the pair modelling a fetching line in family-friendly banter. Whilst Chamberlin orchestrated affairs in a mature, safe-as-houses, offensive-as-a-light-breeze manner, Neville’s assured performance represented something of a triumph of reinvention. Self-effacing, insightful, yet still repugnant to Kopites everywhere – what more could you wish for?

Well, for one thing, what MNF (and, by extension, much of today's football coverage) lacks is a little breathing space. Having watched a whole two plus hours of pre- and post-game discussion, not to mention the match itself, by late evening I was feeling slightly jaded, overwhelmed by the multitude of angles, stats and replays I had been privy to. Retiring to bed that night, I could have easily recreated the entire match in my dreams.

At times Sky's no-stone-unturned match deconstruction can feel like the football equivalent of taking apart and dissecting word-by-word a piece of A-Level literature, which runs the risk of leaving the whole process feeling staunchly academic and ultimately a little unrewarding. If ocean-deep analysis provides heightened insight into the tactical and psychological mechanics of the game, it perhaps dispenses with some of the heart and soul, the difference between driving a cared-for old banger and a sleek piece of Vorsprung durch opulence. Football, like life, perhaps thrives on a little grit and mystery.  

Two people who will be sleeping soundly, however, are Ed and Gary, not that I'm suggesting their relationship runs anywhere beyond the purely professional. This season polished proficiency is most assuredly in. Monday Night Football, then: Sky, for the most part, know how to do it.


~ Matt

Friday 19 August 2011

The Revolutionary Kind

The start of a new football season is an exciting time for sure, but also a tense and confusing one. As the haze of the summer's transfer activity clears, what's left is a reality arguably foggier still, with little more standing between elation and despair than a squad of players and a handful of hope. Whilst the undoubtedly stirring thoughts of Jeff Stelling's gymnastic phraseology and Paul Merson's wobbly dentures send me all giddy in the head, it’s the unwritten peculiarities of the coming months which really toss my mental balance into a tailspin. I can’t help but find all my optimism tempered by lingering fears.

The journey about to unfurl before our eager eyes contains so much mystery, so much doubt, that you can sense the blades of the unanswerable dangling above our heads. What if we don't qualify for Europe? What if our new centre forward turns out to be Carl Leaburn in disguise? What if our new manager actually is Graeme Souness? In short: what if it ALL GOES WRONG? As excitement and trepidation shuffle hand-in-hand towards the great unknown, it's comforting to have something familiar to cling to. Me? I'm clinging to Joey Barton.

Whilst his peers spent their summers getting hair transplants and sun tans and super-injunctions, Barton was focused on bringing to public attention the catalogue of contradictions and broken promises allegedly littering Newcastle United’s floor tiles. Barton gainfully set about forging a new public persona as a soldier of truth and virtue, the fist-biting pinnacle arriving the day he swapped his Twitter profile picture for an image of Che Guevara.

Having felt the need to position himself as a 21st century Wolfie Smith (ask your dad), quoting Nietzsche and Orwell and generally getting a bit highbrow, our Joey also began supporting in earnest calls for National Service to be reinstated for the young and disaffected, as well as ending his reactionary missives with a selection of questionable hashtags (#bringbackthebirch anyone?). Barton’s previous attempt at reinvention saw him grow a vaguely unsettling moustache. This was whole-new-level stuff.

With Barton's scattershot politics having taken the Twittersphere by, if not storm then certainly potent gust, my head was in even more of a late summer spin than usual. Questions suddenly begat more questions. Is Barton going to start a revolution? Will Fabricio Coloccini start addressing his team mates as 'comrade'? Is Shola Ameobi going to spend the warm-up handing out flyers to the crowd whilst Steven Taylor forgoes his place on the bench to instead walk the streets of Tyneside, absorbing the experiences of the common man? Will there be flags planted in the St James’ Park centre circle? Maybe Souness really is making a comeback.

Transfer-listed and at odds with those around him, Barton strode onto the pitch on Saturday evening with even more of a point to prove than usual. Self-cast as the harbinger of all things truthful, the most vital question of all now presented itself – would this rebel without an escape clause stay true to his own newly-minted identity?

Ninety minutes later we had our answer, and a predictable one it was too. The night finished with the familiar red mist descending, as Barton tussled with the inexplicably-foreheaded Gervinho following a rather hasty bit of deck-hitting from the Arsenal man. Dragging the fallen winger to his feet, Barton may have been attempting to restore some moral purity to our tainted game; a signal that cheats shouldn’t prosper. A nation held its breath. Alas, within seconds he’d blown it all as the most powder puff of swipes reduced our would-be hero to a crumpled, disenfranchised heap. If this was an act rebellion, its intended message was anybody's guess.

Ever the fly in the ointment, now tiptoeing the precarious line between class warrior and class clown, Barton’s undoubted sporting gifts are matched only by his unparalleled ability to cause friction in the smoothest of surroundings. His guiding mission statement of late has been to speak out against football's – and, for that matter, life's – wrongdoings, depicting himself as the tormented face upon which humanity’s cruel, studded boot relentlessly stomps.

Unfortunately for Barton, the vigour required to pursue such injustices will always feed off of the one thing which makes him such a divisive figure in the first place – namely that aggressive, volatile nature of his. For all the hand-wringing in the face of injustice, for all the personal rebirth and renewal, that crimson flicker behind the eyes apparently glows as fierce as ever; the eternally flammable polarity of his psyche never more than a flailing opposition limb away from ignition.

All evidence thus far points to Barton remaining a troubled soul, which comes as sweet relief indeed. In fact, the opening salvo of Premier League games provided ample comfort for my worrisome mind. Arsenal jousted and jabbed at St James' without ever throwing a killer punch, the Gunners shorn of guile as well as some wrought iron guts. How Wenger’s men could go a player with the motorik grind which Barton delivers in abundance.

The following day Manchester United departed the Hawthorns with three late-snatched points, while Stoke’s clash with Chelsea produced more of those tiresome old lines about the host’s overt physicality. In fairness, André Villas-Boas’ comments seemed born more from the realisation of the challenge he faces rather than from any genuine grievance, but so far, so familiar nonetheless.

Meanwhile, over in Spain, the Portuguese’s spiritual guru Jose Mourinho was once more leading his troops into warfare with those staunch autonomists Barcelona. Their two-legged Super Cup affair finished with a brawl, a couple of reds and a bizarre piece of ear-tweaking from The Special One – as blunt a physical metaphor as you’re likely to witness all season.

How reassuringly cosy all this feels. For now at least, the great truths of the league remain relatively intact. If it is truth Barton’s searching for, he could perhaps do with looking a little closer to home, as so far all his hollering into the abyss has produced is a mighty echo but no real response. To his credit, he has publicly acknowledged his flaws and probably knows that he will always be a tricky character for others to take into their hearts. To acknowledge one of Barton's literary heroes, it may be the case that he doesn’t want to be loved, so much as merely understood.


~Matt

Friday 12 August 2011

Time To Pretend: The Official Look Away Now 2011/12 Premier League Predictions

A fitful summer that has never quite spluttered into life has been the accompaniment to the past two fallow months. The cream of world football have been stabled – except those show ponies prancing about in the Copa America but that was on ESPN, and we can’t afford ESPN so we missed it. Well done Uruguay, I heard you were great.  

Instead we have been left to slurp from the crude and ultimately unsatisfactory goblet of football gossip. Usually we read pink papers like James Richardson, discussing the merits of the false No.9 or the double pivot using the large flakes from our Paul’s croissants to better illustrate our arguments. Usually we have class. Not so in the fallow summer, that cruel biennial season when we seek out even the most fabricated stories to sate our thirst for football.  

But that's not even the worst of it. To wean ourselves off the gossip we take a badly deflated ball onto the local park and our depression is renewed twofold as the paucity of our own ability becomes all too apparent once more. The itch reoccurs and we return to our bunkers to scroll through news feeds and drown our eyes in the well of sorrow that is Sky Sports News.

Friends, that dread season is almost over, the fields are tilled and the crops sewn. In celebration, your loyal Look Away Now writers have consulted their local astrologists, rubbed their crystal balls and decided that come May, the Premier League table will look one of two ways. 

In case you hadn't heard, it all starts again tomorrow. Rejoice.

~ Ed & Matt 

* * *

Matt's Predictions

  1. Manchester United
  2. Manchester City
  3. Chelsea
  4. Arsenal
  5. Liverpool
  6. Tottenham
  7. Stoke City
  8. Everton
  9. West Brom
  10. Fulham
  11. Sunderland
  12. Wolves
  13. Aston Villa
  14. Newcastle
  15. Bolton
  16. Swansea
  17. Wigan
  18. Blackburn
  19. QPR
  20. Norwich City

FA Cup - West Brom
League Cup - Liverpool
Champions League - Real Madrid
Europa League - Borussia Dortmund
Top Scorer - Javier Hernandez (Manchester United)
Biggest Surprise - Wolves. Comfortable mid-table finish.
Biggest Disappointment - Gervinho (Arsenal).


Ed's Predictions

  1. Manchester United
  2. Chelsea
  3. Manchester City
  4. Tottenham
  5. Arsenal
  6. Liverpool
  7. Sunderland
  8. Everton
  9. Stoke City
  10. Aston Villa
  11. Fulham
  12. Bolton
  13. Wolves
  14. West Brom
  15. Newcastle
  16. Blackburn
  17. Norwich City
  18. Wigan
  19. Swansea
  20. QPR

FA Cup – Manchester City
League Cup – Arsenal
Champions League – Barcelona
Europa – Roma
Top Scorer – Andy Carroll (Liverpool)
Biggest Surprise – Stoke in the Europa (QF)
Biggest Disappointment – Arsenal's league finish