Waiting In Vain

“Good evening, Mr Redknapp – we've been expecting you. Stay where you are, we'll send the lift down. No, no, don't worry about the car, we'll have someone park it for you. Remember to pop the window up – this isn't a drive-thru you know. Anyway, welcome back to the top table, it really is so good of you to join us again. I think you'll find everything much the same as you left it. Now then – waiter! Some drinks for our guest plea... oh, my apologies Senior Benitez...”

The above mixture of stock punchlines and clichéd character sketch is my own ham-fisted attempt at demonstrating the jarring disparity in reaction to the Premier League's two most recent managerial appointments. If dear old Harry Redknapp's return to top flight duty last week was somewhat less than surprising – supporters having been chanting his name during the dying hours of Mark Hughes' reign – Rafa Benitez's near-simultaneous reanimation was anything but. The re-emergence of Sandbanks' finest was always but a matter of time; Benitez's return – to an ominously chilling reception – was truly a shocker.

In a way having this pair of former favourites back in charge of Premier League clubs feels a bit like a whole bunch of recent history didn't happen, that we've really just been treading footballing water since they left their previous positions, so interwoven are their idiosyncrasies in the stitching of the Premier League era. Of course they've only stepped back into the milieu precisely because of recent events, namely the dismissals of Hughes and Roberto Di Matteo by QPR and Chelsea respectively. The scenarios they find themselves in, however, could not be more different.

Redknapp's appointment as QPR boss has been, if not the stuff of terrace dreams, then certainly a cause for renewed optimism around Loftus Road. His début game in charge saw the Hoops pick up their first clean sheet away from home in nearly 18 months, hinting that his new charges are already pulling their socks up. A similarly tight rearguard has also been the overriding characteristic of Rafa Benitez's first week in charge at Stamford Bridge... on the field at least. In the stands, the Spaniard’s reception has been eerily reminiscent of Manchester United's 1993 visit to Galatasaray, a Balkan away day remembered not-so-fondly for baton charges, tunnel brawls and the infamous “Welcome to Hell” banners adorning the airport hallways of Istanbul. Chelsea fans' own attempts at placard-based intimidation have been somewhat more prosaic – “Rafa Out” not holding quiet the same air of violent menace – but the underlying message remains basically the same: you're not wanted here.

It's a confusing situation from the get-go really. On the one hand there's the Rafa us neutrals know and (sometimes) love, the affable David-Gest-with-a-whiteboard figure, open and passionate but definitely vibrating on some frequency others can't quite set the dial to; warm-hearted, ever-so-slightly nuts, the kind of man who one imagines carries a selection of pens in his shirt pocket at all times, like a happy yet vaguely unhinged IT professor. And yet the turmoil of his appointment feels like some basic miscalculation in the binary composition of the season, a dreadful glitch in the very nature of football itself. Rafa managing Chelsea? Don't be so silly, he wouldn't dream of it! Look, he even said so himself. And yet here he is, doing his utmost to say the right things and act the right way in front of a baying audience who support the one team that got under his skin more than any other, the club which allowed us a rare glimpse into the dark side of the man.

Harry meanwhile has no such popularity issues, his sunshine-after-the-rain arrival creating a palpable atmospheric shift, spurring a renewed belief that despite their woeful start, he may be able to summon enough gumption amongst Rangers' ragtag posse of misfiring millionaires to salvage their season. He may not be everyone's cup of Tetley's, but he's nothing if not effective. Benitez's arrival, by way of contrast, has felt more like a unwelcome meteor crashing through the west London ozone layer, its deep impact sending a tidal wave of torrential disillusion crashing through Fulham Broadway.

Speaking of showers, one of Benitez's key tasks will be to get some return out of the goal-shy Fernando Torres, Chelsea's record signing and a man whose persistent and passable impression of a haunted Barbie doll has left supporters' hands a-wringing. Not that any of this animosity and pressure will necessarily bother Benitez unduly. Never a man short of self-confidence, 'Factgate' aside not much seems to faze our Rafa. He certainly hasn't been afraid to put his head above the parapet thus far. Despite his contract running only until next June (or whenever Pep Guardiola decides he's had his fill of coffee mornings with Fox Mulder), Benitez has openly stated his intention to gain a further twelve month extension. Good luck with that – although setting his stall out in such fashion does feel like Classic Benitez, always a man wanting to plan and build, favouring structure and order over ramshackle riffing.

Which does beg questions as to why he took the job in the first place. Cynics would point to numerous reasons – three million of them, in fact, spread generously over a six month period. Or perhaps he just really, really loves a challenge? Well, he's sure got one. But taking on the role of Chelsea manager is really more dark night of the soul than bright new horizon. Imagine that first meeting with Abramovich! What a feeling, heading into a Bond villain's lair; a sense of doomed wonderment pervading the air, dark-suited henchmen never more than a few feet away as a megalomaniac super-villain (white cat optional) stands at the opposite foot of a trick bridge crossing a piranha pond. Abramovich wouldn't have flinched, calming laying out his plans for world domination in apocalyptic detail, inviting Benitez to stand and watch, helpless as a wall of omniscient high-def screens spewed forth images of the West collapsing, interspersed with snippets of Chelsea fans venting into Sky Sports microphones and a satellite feed of a sad Di Matteo walking his dog. Probably.

One would imagine Redknapp's appointment to be notably less death-defying. While some may harbour a disliking the man himself, I suspect most of the QPR faithful fully accept that he may be one of very few managers around with the necessary footballing chutzpah to heave their ailing side back up the table. No, Harry's issues are very much of the on-field variety, but then he is a man used to playing the saviour role. When appointed Portsmouth manager in March 2002, the club sat 15th in the Championship yet just fourteen short months later were winging their way to the big time. His highs and lows since (both sporting and personal) have been well documented, not least by Harry himself, as his oft-mocked but nonetheless true “two-from-eight” soundbite will testify to.

For the last few weeks QPR have been increasingly derided and mocked as hopeless failures-in-waiting; a stumbling, bumbling jumble of overpaid mercenaries and Championship-level journeymen; a mish-mash of drifting quasi-talents and mid-level huff-puffers. Now that Redknapp is in charge, many opinions are already on the turn, tunes changing from grimly pessimistic to “well they'll probably be fine now”, which says a hell of a lot about the motivational talents of one man.

Yet for all Harry's pep and persuasion, the hard math doesn't make for pretty arithmetic. QPR are already eight points adrift of the safety line and remain winless with over a third of their fixtures played. Chelsea, meanwhile, sit six points off the league's summit and – despite sitting on the brink of imminent Champion's League collapse – are very much in contention for major honours once again. But that won't be enough, for Chelsea's fans feel betrayed, taken for mugs via their love-hate relationship with the club’s owner, knowing that however unpopular his choice of coach may be, he can always take the whole thing away just by cancelling the cheque. Even money you won't be seeing any “Roman Out” banners at the Bridge for a while yet.

And so the merry-go-round continues to spin unabated – two managers thrown to the turf, two more hopping back on. All the fun of the fair I suppose, but we already know who will be going home the happiest. Picture a scenario where Chelsea finish, say, fourteen places and forty points ahead of their neighbours. While the latter's manager will be paraded through the streets a hero, the former's will almost certainly still be hounded out of town. That's how things are in west London these days. I say just sit back, relax and enjoy the ride. Welcome back, Harry; more ice please, waiter.

~ Matt

https://twitter.com/MattAwayNow

The Lame Duck

I was feeling bad last Saturday afternoon. A night (and morning) of drinking, combined with a few restless hours of couch-bound half-sleep, had left me groggy and slightly frazzled, my head feeling roughly akin to an aeroplane seat cushion following a long haul flight spent underneath Eric Pickles. By the time my body was readjusting itself to the world of the living – ten to five in the evening, to be precise – Mark Hughes may have been wishing he could similarly disappear from view.

It's been intriguing to watch 'the Hughes situation' (as Glenn Hoddle would probably term it) unfold over the course of the past 72 hours. Following QPR's 3-1 home shaming by Southampton, Hughes' immediate response was to produce an admirable post-match performance in front of the awaiting cameras. Bullish and shot through with a stern-eyed bravado, it was infinitely more solid than anything his back four had managed in the previous two months. Credit to the man – if he was experiencing thoughts of desertion, he was giving off very little sign of it. Nonetheless, the media speculation as to his level of job security has been shuffling uncomfortably close to DEFCON 1 ever since. He hasn't quite arrived at Steve Kean levels of public blood-lust just yet, but Sir Alex he certainly ain't.

The last three days have seen a drip-drop of mixed messages emanating form the vicinity of W12. Tapping away at my keyboard on Monday evening, fingertips flipping between barren word document and text coverage of West Ham v Stoke (perhaps the dullest use yet for the internet – although I'll never need an excuse to remind myself of this contender), rumours abounded that Mark Hughes was to be relieved of his position of QPR boss following high-level 'crunch talks' (a term I'm a big fan of, by the way – something in it's visceral onomatopoeia, the definitive break, something irreparably cracking in two, never to be rejoined. They aren't called 'wobble chats' or 'flop yaks' for nothing you know).

Speaking of sounds, conflicting ones continued to pour fourth as the rumour mill went into full churn. Despite a trickle of semi-convincing assurances later that night that Hughes would not be relieved of his woes – sorry, position – contradictory evidence was presented the following day as London's Evening Standard reported that Hughes had been asked to quit. He refused, apparently, and without chairman Tony Fernandes on hand to pull the lever, Hughes opted for at least a few more torturous nights on death row.

Hughes' fate now struggles to mask it's own queasy air of inevitability; his departure becoming an entity of it's own: something slowly forming and coming to life, cells multiplying and dividing, no longer an abstract concept but rather a real, living, breathing thing. Of course, post-Southampton, the Hughes sacking narrative really built up a head of steam. Note, for example, the BBC football front page on Saturday night: '“I will not quit”, says Hughes'. A defiant statement for sure, but also a telling one, indicating the loss of faith in his managerial abilities was now reaching some kind of anti-employability event horizon. But it also suggested that the canny Welshman had quite possibly fallen foul of one of journalism’s most sadistic bluffs.

In the hit US political drama/liberal wet-dream The West Wing, White House press secretary C.J. Cregg is asked during a routine press conference if the president had considered a particular course of action (a lame duck Congressional session, to be precise) to avoid some upcoming legislative hoo-ha or another. Knowing full well that he hadn't – it was a silly idea and anyway, Martin Sheen's President Barlet was a bloody genius, OK? – but aware that she could not prove this for sure, she offers to check and report back. Both she and her colleagues know she has fallen into a particularly sneaky journalistic bear-trap, because the moment the commander-in-chief receives this enquiry the notion in question will automatically, unavoidably enter his mind. He will have considered it – fleetingly, and perhaps even unintentionally, but consider it he will most certainly have.

On Saturday evening the BBC asked Hughes if he “expected to still be in charge” following their latest defeat – an open-ended enquiry, not intended to judge exactly whose hands his future may be in, but one which nonetheless carefully placed a tantalising physiological probe. Others went further, openly asking Hughes if he would abandon ship, their initial questions coming vacuum wrapped with their own self-fulfilling answers. Step 1: Hughes is asked if he is intending to jack it all in and book himself on the first train back to Wrexham. Step 2: Hughes says he isn't, but the seed is sown, and even if he really isn't, it barely matters - a “will-he, won't-he” narrative is born anyway. “I don't run away from challenges”, responded Hughes, as the thought of running away from a challenge imperceptibly wormed it's way inside of his cranium like an unwelcome hanger-on at a party (albeit one where no-one's having any fun, the drugs have run out and the hosts are being disdainfully berated for just lying about the place, squandering their reputations and generally not giving a fuck).

Watching Saturday's game hungry and hungover as I was, it was obvious even through my hazy peepers that Saints manager Nigel Adkins was remaining disarmingly calm and collected in the face of growing media speculation over his own position. Adkins strikes me as a man of cool, trim focus – the kind of soul who, following a Friday night bender, would be up and about at the crack of dawn, doing his stretches in the hall before departing for a quick 2km run, whilst the rest of us gingerly sip water and pull the covers back over our heads, wishing the outside world to disappear. He's one of those people: all fitness and zing, a wet-eared deputy head with a charming lack of cynicism. I don't understand them, but I hold a grudging respect for them. Not for Nigel the cruel machinations of the press pack – this is, after all, a man not afraid to throw down some verse during a routine post-match interview.

When he isn't busting out the balladry himself, Adkins has got his class leaping on the table, seemingly allowing his own methodology to rub off on his team. Like Arsene Wenger when he first arrived on these shores, Adkins has the look of a man more likely to advise you on your stock options than to drill Nathaniel Clyne on the nuances of the offside trap. But also like Wenger, he seems intent on instilling a cohesive philosophy into his charges (although he could do with splashing out on a centre-half or two come January), and the prettier the results, the better. Following a brutal start to the campaign (which included meetings with last years top three in the opening four matches) the Saints, judging by their neat, triangulated pass-n-invent display on Saturday, are in pole position to become this seasons' Swansea. I'm not altogether sure where that leaves Swansea – last season's Blackpool? 2000's Barnsley? – but they seem to be having a lovely old time under Michael Laudrup so I'm sure they're none too fussed either way.

Adkins is of course a rookie in Premier League terms, as opposed to Hughes who, like his Everton counterpart David Moyes, can no longer be considered an up-and-coming, saucer-eyed (literally, in the latter's case) dugout prodigy, but rather a fully fledged, experienced manager. And with such experience comes the inevitability of being on the receiving end of a good old fashioned sacking every once in a while. Writing for the Guardian in 2011 about the similar circumstances of Steve Bruce's dismissal from Sunderland, Barney Ronay argued that a manager is these days little more than “a patsy, a head presented on a stake at regular intervals as an emblem of progress”, and so true has this been of QPR in recent years. A project grimly decorated with the blood splatter of boardroom fall-outs and behind-the-scenes power struggles, every few months or so the manager was dismissed – a convenient scapegoat, a move often more political than sporting (although no-one really needs the veneer of 'politics' to give Ian Dowie the boot).

But then a funny thing happened. It may be by design or pure chance, but QPR seem to have been getting their sackings right of late, with each recent touchline prowler performing their function then departing. Neil Warnock finally got the Hoops back in the big time, but when it became obvious that his old-school stylings weren't going to give them much hope of survival, he was cast adrift to be replaced by Hughes. Sparky had experience of the pressures of modern Premier League era, but perhaps crucially offered a cooler alternative to the Yorkshireman's terrier growl. When Manchester City were bought on transfer deadline day 2008, Hughes famously continued with his round of golf, pausing only between holes to check his phone to see which superstar forward he would be greeting at training the next day.

So it seems – much like in his playing days – that Hughes' composure shouldn't be questioned. But if Tony Fernandes' goal at Loftus Road is long-term stability, that now more than ever means staying in the Premier League. Loyalty is all well and good, but for QPR to drop back down to the Championship they battled so desperately to escape would perhaps set the club back years. One certainly can't envisage Adel Taarabt relishing another nine months of Tuesday night trips to Bristol City, sat alone on the coach as it rumbles back east along the M4 at midnight, just his headphones and thoughts of rejected transfer requests of yore for company.

Obviously by the time you read this Hughes could have been sacked, which may indicate that Fernandes is either another trigger-happy firebrand or that he has acted swiftly to stop the rot before it fatally gnaws away at his team's hopes of survival. Or he might still have a job. Whatever Hughes' fate, I would like to think that Adkins is this morning once again waking up bright-eyed and bushy-vocabed, still in a job, still thinking in paeans not prose, lacing his trainers and readying himself for another day of good vibes and neato positivity. Now that I think about it, those sound like just the things QPR need. Maybe he should wait by his phone. Actually, he probably doesn't have one. He looks the type.

~ Matt

https://twitter.com/MattAwayNow

Happiness Isn't A Warm Bench

“When I'm happy great things happen”. Not my words – the words of Dimitar Berbatov: the man, the mystery. Positively aglow in front of the cameras following a stirring home debut for Fulham last weekend, everyone's favourite brooding Bulgarian perhaps finally dispelled the myth that great suffering breeds great art. Berbatov – a footballing enigma in the truest sense of the term, perceived by turns as surely, detached or just icily collected – is a player of inarguable natural gifts but one appearing at times to be floating through the footballing world forever shrouded in an aura of spiritual displacement. Shorn of game time and, by extension, inspiration, Berbatov has not been the happiest of bunnies in recent times. But was it always like this? Let's refresh our memories.

Arriving at Tottenham in the summer of 2006, Berbatov, after a patchy start, formed a short-lived but prosperous partnership with travelling goal-salesman Robbie Keane, soon winning the hearts of the White Hart Lane faithful. The high point of his stay surely came when – displaying nerves of wrought iron – he slotted away an equalising penalty in his sides' 2008 League Cup final defeat of Chelsea. Berbatov amassed 27 goals in 70 appearances for the Londoners, solidifying a reputation as more of a game-influencer than a goal-scorer, but it was this very quality which drew envious glances from one Sir Alex Ferguson.

Basking in the post-coital afterglow of a Premier and Champions League double, Ferguson called on Berbatov to reinforce United's frontline. Eventually brought to Old Trafford in the dying light of deadline day following an arduous and unpretty transfer farrago, Ferguson doubtlessly saw his new acquisition as something of an heir to the magisterial lineage linking the likes of Eric Cantona and Teddy Sheringham, players who offered something different, the stock phrase of choice plucked by football’s intellectuals when tasked with defining the indefinable. What Berbatov brought to the table was deftness of touch and technique, an alertness of mind as well as body, perhaps in contrast to the more obvious physical traits of thunderous raging bulls like Wayne Rooney or Carlos Tevez.

This intangible footballing manner is one which Ferguson has long sought in his forwards and Berbatov was heralded as the next in line – an introspective auteur in the Cantona vein; a man of both goals and provision like Sheringham. But whilst the former wore his heart firmly on his sleeve (and on his studs. And fists), Berbatov exhibited a certain fragility, never quite slotting into Ferguson's side as seamlessly as either of the aforementioned duo. As such, one question still lingers: can Berbatov's inability to influence proceedings at United be causally linked to some underlying malaise, one which many believe his perma-maudlin manner hints at?

Perhaps. Perhaps not. It seems fair to say that much of this oft-painted image of Berbatov as some kind of fanciful footballer-dilettante most likely stems as much from his laconic playing style as it does from any deep-seated melancholia. This contrast was exaggerated further still by his stationing alongside United team-mates blessed with pace and penetration. His rare traits were meant to complement the brio of those around him. Instead, they merely ended up setting him apart.

Having slipped down the pecking order at Old Trafford, Berbatov has seemingly spent the past eighteen months' worth of Saturday afternoons wandering the streets of Salford, lost in a thick existential fug. Never a natural fit amidst United's velocious attacking puzzle pieces, the Bulgarian has cut an increasingly lonely figure on and off the field – a master without a muse; an athlete with an aesthete's heart searching mournfully for poetry and purpose. It's a tough mental image to shift, as resonant and narrative-defining, as possibly-true, possibly-not, as Ashley Cole's avarice or Cristiano Ronaldo's rampant narcissism.

Of course, the presumed inertia of his time spent warming the Old Trafford bench could be interpreted in one of two ways. On one hand there's the distinct possibility that he caught a bad case of the Winston Bogardes: a debilitating malady afflicting highly paid, pampered stars whereby the sufferer appears content to see out his contract and collect a hefty pay cheque along the way, all with minimum effort and maximum reward (financially, at least). The alternative take is slightly more altruistic. Berbatov may quite simply have decided to put the needs of his club and his team-mates before his own, redefining himself as the unselfish squad member ready to offer what he could when called upon. I like to think of our Dimi as the latter. He rarely aired any public grievances about his reduced role, and his protracted deliberations when finally leaving – rejecting first Turin then, controversially, Florence in favour of west London – were reportedly due to family considerations.

Now reunited with Martin Jol – less a father figure, more a patron of the arts – Berbs may finally have found himself a suitably nourishing head-space within which he can thrive. Surrounded by willing runners like Damien Duff and Bryan Ruiz, the hard yards won't be required of him as they were under Ferguson. Instead he will find himself the attacking focal point of a side which, when it clicks, is capable of producing some eye-pleasing stuff. As a fan of Berbatov the player, I want to see him create and flourish rather than languish and stagnate.

Having said that, it's always strange watching your favourite players depart. You trumpeted their arrival with hope and expectation. You cheered their stellar turns with unbridled joy. You rolled your eyes and threw your arms skyward when they spurned chances. You nursed proud, confusing erections when they bamboozled opponents, as Berbatov so memorably did against West Ham early in his United stint with a piece of slick trickery so gracefully nonchalant and yet so mind-bendingly bamboozling that those present are probably still untwisting their necks.

And then, gradually, they fall out of favour, replaced by some young buck or another, and before you know it they've slipped away in the night. The ones who betray the club feel the full force of the supporter's wrath, but it is the ones who entertain, frustrate, but ultimately warm the heart who are most painfully mourned. But the fact is United have moved on without Berbatov. It was a marriage that never really worked – there was kindness, security, but the spark had long-since diminished. His quest for contentment begins now.

~ Matt

The Prophecy Market

Having spent the past few months cheering the tennis, really deeply appreciating the rowing and spitting foul-mouthed, disbelieving vitriol at the horse dancing, football is, as you may have noticed, back. Following a summer dominated by sport, many of our beloved football personalities (and Gordon Taylor) out there in personality-land have expressed the hope that the marvellous spirit of the Olympics – if you ignore the whole badminton hoo-ha – will rub off on the beautiful game.

Is that really what we want though? Remove the controversy and the pantomime villains from football and the relationship between us fans and the game itself runs the risk of ending up like a passionless marriage, which is something no-one wants. Unless passion isn't really your thing, in which case you might be interested to know that the National Dressage Championships canter into view in just three weeks time.

No, what the Olympics have actually proved is what a wonderfully unpredictable phenomena sport can be. Who would have ever tipped Mo Farah to become both a double gold medal winner and an already-exhausting internet meme almost overnight? Who would have thought that sixty-three consecutive choruses of “Hey Jude” could get just a little bit wearing? And what were the chances of the GB men’s football team reaching a tournament quarter-final, struggling against middling opposition and ultimately meeting a cruel penalty-based end? Oh.

Anyway, those of you with long memories and/or empty lives may recall that this time last year I was delighting in the comfort of the familiar, parachuted as I was back into the Premier League battlefield with a reassuring bout of Joey Barton petulance, a phenomenon which, as it turned out, book-ended the season nicely. Glad I was that at such an angst-riddled time some things remained as certain as night following day.

And, sure enough, certain reassuring patterns have re-emerged again this season. Just as Manchester City came from the behind to snatch the league from the hands of their bitter rivals in the dying seconds of the 2011-12 campaign, so this season began with a topsy-turvy encounter against an unfancied newcomer, falling behind as they did to Southampton only to rally and regroup, emerging 3-2 to the good and probably wondering if this whole 'winning' thing is actually all that tricky after all.

Arsenal too have given us our now-standard opening day goal-famine, while QPR went one better (or worse?) than last season with their traditional home humbling-to-nil, this time at the hands of last years neutrals' favourites Swansea. Shorn of the inspirational Brendan Rogers and with a departed backbone of Caulker, Allen and Sigurdsson, the visitors were widely tipped to struggle. The last thing we expected was a performance of such attacking brio, but here we are, as Michael Laudrup – Danish footballing legend, newly installed Swans boss and all-round lovely bloke – fist-pumped his way along the Loftus Road touchline, a stark contrast to the glowering fury etched on the fizzog of one-man Mark Hughes fanclub Mark Hughes. Who can claim they saw that one coming? Not I, and clearly not Sparky either, as within 72 hours he was busy bidding for stoppers like a mad man at a plug auction.

And who can honestly say they noticed the aforementioned Barton's loan move to Marseille lurking behind the transfer window’s billowy curtain? Once more we must plead ignorance, although the more I think about it, the more sense it sort-of makes. Barton has been all about the broadening of horizons in recent times, what with his reinvention as a wisdom-dispensing, 140-character-abusing, irony-non-comprehending moral crusader, and so a rejuvenating spell east of the channel could be just the ticket. Joe Cole got on rather well in France last season. If Barton manages to return without the aid of the British Embassy, Hughes could probably label it a success.

Further surprise came in the £24m shape of Robin van Persie's move from Arsenal to Manchester United, a departure which, by the Gunner's standards, was completed in whip-smart time. A mere 49 days elapsed between van Persie's non-renewel announcement and his arrival at Old Trafford, and the deal even appeared to take Sir Alex Ferguson by surprise. “If he hadn't told Arsenal he wanted to go to Manchester United, the transfer wouldn't have happened”, wide-eyed Sir, which is a bit like saying “this taxi would never have gotten me home if I hadn't told the driver exactly which road I live on.” Nevertheless, the very mention of the mercurial Dutchman (is there any other kind?) rocking up in Salford would have seen you led away to the madhouse mere weeks ago. Arsenal, for their part, foresaw their captain's departure with the signings of Lukas Podolski and Olivier Giroud, which means it's entirely possible that Arsene Wenger – and you'll like where I'm going with this – noticed something that the rest of us missed. You just can't write that kind of material.

All of which unexpected to-ing and fro-ing makes me wonder if the role of footballing pundit might actually be the easiest job in the world? As I see it, there appear to be three basic types of prediction one can make as a pundit: the safe pass, the mid-range chancer and the somewhat more impudent, noticed-the-keeper-off-his-line-from-your-own-half effort. Get any of these right and expect to be praised for your foresight and acumen. But what if you’re wrong, I hear you exclaim? No matter, you can simply haul out the time-tested 'it’s a funny old game' defence quicker than Alan Pardew laughs off a common assault.

With that in mind, dear reader, I hereby offer up to you my top tips for the coming Premier League season, presented at no obvious risk to myself or my reputation:

First up, the safe bet, and for me that means Fernando Torres, who, despite an utterly wretched eighteen months of false starts, false hope and more misses than a serial polygamist, will finally come good. With Didier Drogba traipsing off to China to rekindle his friendship with Nicolas Anelka, Roberto Di Matteo will basically have no choice but to tailor Chelsea's attacking impulses to the Spaniards wants. And what Torres wants is incisive, cunning build up and the chance to manoeuvre himself into the kind of positions which accentuate the benefits of his movement and instinct. With players like Mata, Oscar, Ramires and the already-impressive Eden Hazard supplying the bullets, Torres will finally be shooting to kill. That, and he's grown his hair out again.

Next, it’s Everton, who I am confidently naming as my Surprise Package of the Season – or as much of a surprise package as any team which consistently finishes in and around the European places can realistically be. Notoriously slow starters, this year Everton have gotten their transfer business out of the way early, which will be a huge benefit. Having dressed Jack Rodwell up as Danielle Di Rossi and sent him off to the Etihad, David Moyes may for once have some money to burn. History suggests he'll spend it wisely. He's also held onto Phil Jagielka and Leighton Baines whilst securing the permanent return of Steven Pienaar. I'm calling a top six finish for the Toffeemen – and their opening weekend victory over United means I'm already feeling pretty confident about this one (us pundits like to utilise all the tools available to us, including predicting stuff that's already happened).

Last, and quite possibly least, West Brom, who are the subject of my very own big, brave, ballsier-than-a-night-in-Vegas-with-Prince-Harry long-shot prediction. Having said a tearful goodbye – and a much-needed goodluck – to the departing Roy Hodgson at last season’s end, the Albion begin the new campaign under their fourth coach (permanent or otherwise) in a shade over 18 months. Despite bolstering their goal scoring options with Romelu Lukaku and Sweden’s Markus Rosenberg, I worry for West Brom because Steve Clarke, in his first managerial role, will have to learn on the job. The history of assistants successfully moving to the front of the dugout is neither a particularly long nor decorated one, and it is for this reason that I am tipping the Baggies for the drop.

Now don’t forget: if Torres ends up spending the second half of the season on loan at Torquay, Everton suffer relegation for the first time in 62 years and West Brom snatch an unlikely Champions League berth, don't go blaming me. It is, after all, a funny old game.

~ Matt

Summertime Blues

It's summer and I'm sick. “What's the matter?”, I don't hear you cry. “Hay fever? Aching limbs? A fundamental sense of social inadequacy?” Well yes, I've got all of that too, but what's laying me up at the moment is a particular, precarious ailment of contradictory symptoms, most notably short, sustained bursts of envy, swearing, shouting, joy, drunkenness, sleepless nights and a constant feeling of impending hopelessness, rather like a weekend in Basildon. It's not the first time I've felt this syndrome take hold, having been struck down by similar periods of malady since I was a nipper. Intriguingly, they tend to last for a solitary three-to-four week period once every two years. Worryingly, I'm not alone in my suffering – it's been endemic to England since the autumn of 1966 and to the best of our research there's no known cure. We've tried everything – aromatherapy, the mysterious secretions of exotic amphibians, cricket – but nothing seems to relieve of us of this foggy affliction.

I'm case you haven't guessed, I'm currently in the full grip of a nasty, European strain of tournament fever, for this summer's championship has gotten off to a frantic and hugely entertaining start. The treats so far have been plentiful. I've delighted in Russia's dazzling attacking brio, which saw off a disappointingly ordinary Czech Republic. I've watched Italy go toe-to-toe with holders Spain, who attempted to plunge a final nail in the coffin of the traditional notion of the centre-forward by playing a total of six midfielders. At the time the introduction of Fernando Torres felt less like an attempt at resuscitation than it did a symbolic, melancholy tossing of dirt into the grave, the last rights administered to a dying tactical stalwart.

The big upset came early this year in the form of the Netherlands' second day defeat to Denmark, a victory which owed as much to Dutch wastefulness as it did to Danish patience. Maybe the Dutch should have brought on another midfielder. In fact Denmark's contribution to the tournament's drama – and by extension my diminishing health – has been as important as anyone's, including playing their part in an enthralling five goal thriller with an unshackled Portugal. Ronaldo even smiled at the end. Maybe he's ill too.

Elsewhere in Group B, Germany and the aforementioned Netherlands seem to be passing each other on some kind of footballing Snakes & Ladders board, the former in the midst of a rapturous ascent as the latter slip towards a level of frightful ineptitude. For a footballing dynasty raised on a liberal diet of risk and invention, the Dutch look shockingly static and derivative, even their biggest stars lacking the poetic spark of the nation's past masters. Against Germany in particular they were simply shorn of any kind of offensive rhythm, cursed with an ageing central midfield put dispassionately to the sword by the constant movement and guile of Messrs Khedira, Schweinsteiger and Ozil. Where once the men from the low country twinkled, here they've merely looked flat.

Day three brought us the sight of Ireland squaring up to an impressive Croatia. Ireland's presence at tournaments often feels a bit like some kind of court jester's sideshow to entertain the masses until the real teams start playing, such is the coverage given to the travelling ranks of merry, green-shirted supporters, often at the expense of any real focus on their side's strengths and weaknesses. Which is probably a little unfair, as Ireland's contain-and-counter gameplan isn't a million miles removed from that of some of their more fancied contemporaries (more on that later). Still, despite Croatia's goals coming from the kind of cross-and-head direct plays you'd have expected the Irish to know inside-out, quality eventually told. Ireland have lacked movement and imagination and by the end of their subsequent Spanish humbling looked as unprepared for their summer outing as Alan Shearer’s scalp on a holiday in Death Valley.

Russia's Tuesday night clash with Poland was perhaps the tournament's zenith thus far. Set against a backdrop of tension on the streets of Warsaw, the two sides conspired to produce a pulsating affair, all heart and history and a mutual willingness to attack with both groove and hope. The final half an hour was as good an advertisement for international football as one could hope to see. The aftermath, less so.

And so we move on to Group D and Roy Hodgson's England, the point at which my state of infirmity mutates into something approaching hysteria, my mind struggling to prevent a nation's misguided hopes and dreams from contaminating my few remaining receptors of logic and reason. Shearer's pre-tournament decree that the current lack of confidence felt towards the squad could actually spur them on to victory neatly summed up our inherent, dichotomic blend of frustration and expectation. For so many moons we English use consecutive breaths to bemoan our lack of world class talent before trumpeting the importance of our – it says here – unique set of attributes: namely passion, commitment and, well, that's about it actually. We spend years dreaming of purity, of creativity and expression, before surrendering meekly for a fortnight or so to the crushing acceptance of that ever-intangible bulldog resolve: a nation's beefy set of abstract traits; solipsism dressed up in blooded shirts and bandages. As we strive to summon the spirit of Butcher and Pearce, we forget that their wounds healed quickly because they bled in the cooling shadows of true world-beaters like Barnes, Gascoigne and Lineker.

Today we look to players like Gerrard, Parker and Terry to amplify the lion's roar, but what Hodgson appears to be seeking is something a little more coy. As we all know, against France we were neither broken down nor outclassed. Much like a healthy bowel movement, England were solid and unspectacular: high in durability but low in charm, the footballing equivalent of a post-war prefab. Reporters thumbed battered thesauruses in search of further faint praise and found it: dogged, compact, resilient, disciplined. Not terms to set the pulse racing, but certainly qualities to keep a heart beating steady following a period of upheaval and uncertainty.

Let's be honest, you would have to be optimistic (and perhaps slightly unhinged) to expect much more from England at this point in time. Towards the end of Fabio Capello's reign England were starting to find their own identity. Players with a little pace and courage like Theo Walcott and the absent Adam Johnson began taking the game to opponents, while Ashley Young's status as a key player started to cement, as we settled in to a slightly more adventurous 4-2-3-1 formation. But then it all changed, and for England's slow learners a new manager will always mean another term of basic comprehension; understanding and digesting new roles in a new system. It makes sense for Hodgson to play it safe, to set his team up as a hard-to-beat outfit, because history shows that imposing any other kind of philosophy takes time and a decent helping of miss-steps along the way. And it's these long standing problems which Hodgson will have to tackle head-on eventually.

With the Euros barely a week old, it is clear once more that England still lack several things. We continue to produce generations of players without subtlety and poise, more often than not electing two touches over one and favouring directness over aplomb. We still find ourselves adhering to the idea that players must meet certain criteria or be made from certain moulds: the pacey winger, the hulking centre-forward, the tough guy in the middle of the park – players who tick boxes just as much as they fit them.

So what England did against France was as back-to-basics as it was necessary. Chelsea's defensive masterclasses at the business end of last season's Champions League have already achieved the status of hackneyed footballing cliché – trotted out by unimaginative commentators to portray a synonymity with any clean-sheet achieved by a supposed underdog – but what typified the Blue's miserliness was not only grit and determination but knowing and nous. To succeed on the international scene without a Silva, an Ozil or a Modric you still need to be a little bit cute, even if it's in a defensive sense. Hodgson seems to understand that shape and discipline are a touch cuter than blood and thunder. And that may have to do for now.

Alas, such shortcomings – much like my state of affliction – shan't be remedied overnight, but it's my hope that Hodgson uses this summer as a basis upon which a more expansive outfit can be built. England's caution won't cool my fevered, jealous brow instantly, but then again it did work for Chelsea. Someone pass me the thermometer.

~ Matt

Slow Direction Home

Hear that? That distant, echoing, clickity-clack of sweaty fingers on plastic? That's the sound of a thousand tabloid journos furiously Googling pictures of vegetables. This is the only course of action that makes any sense for hacks across the land since Roy Hodgson was chosen as the seventeenth England manager in preference to ‘The People's Choice’, Harry Redknapp. Maybe they'll stumble, all feverish and off balance, across a snap of a nice sweet potato, or an Instagram of a fresh, juicy parsnip. We can of course rule out the humble cucumber, as it's technically a fruit (something about seeds... but let's not get into that now). Who knows what they'll eventually come up with. There is obviously a whole planet's worth of natural culinary delights to choose from, which makes narrowing the odds a bit tricky, but at the moment I'm thinking radish, largely because it begins with an 'r'.

I am talking of course about the probably pre-emptive stockpiling of anti-Hodgson headline fodder, rotten organic matter set aside to figuratively hurl at him should he end up in the public stocks. With Euro 2012 only a month away, I imagine The Sun's photo-editing desk is already on amber alert. And most excited they must be too. So favourable to the media was Harry Redknapp’s application that he was essentially being fitted for his coronation robes from the moment in February when Fabio Capello finally decided he'd had enough of this nonsense and absconded in the dull light of a late winter's eve, likely to eventually reappear in some comparatively low-pressure arena like Serie A or the European Central Bank.

Whilst the public reaction to Hodgson's appointment has for the most part been reassuringly warm, it is common knowledge that the Fleet Street crawlers amongst us had their favourite from the get-go and were eager to let anyone within ear shot know about it. Had he gotten the gig, it would surely have taken a failure of epic proportions to have seen him publicly depantsed in the neo-Victorian fashion once endured by Graham Taylor and an unfortunate turnip. For the record, had a moment of visage/vegetable crossover ever arrived for Redknapp, I would have gone with 'beetroot'.

Before we get to Hodgson, it's worth looking at the whole hullabaloo surrounding Redknapp and international football's poisoned chalice, as it’s known to those of us who would step over a dying relative to have give it a go. For someone so fervently championed as the man the people wanted, I never really met that many people leading the cheers for Harry. Perhaps I don't move in the right circles. Perhaps I've been such a shameless Hodgson fan-boy my entire football-following life that I just tried to block it all out. Perhaps I was so resigned to Redknapp being appointed that I just shut off my senses in forlorn acceptance. Maybe I just didn't think the FA would ever bow to that one force theoretically stronger than public opinion: common sense.

So why was it that the national media were so desperate for Harry to inherit the earth? Even the most flustered of editorial-spewers must have known that he’d never be guaranteed to succeed, just like his host of talented, would-have-been predecessors. Yes he's a motivator, yes he's got passion, but he's not alone there. So I have a theory. Maybe Harry isn’t such a close friend of the press after all. Maybe they, like us, are getting a little sick of his just-another-geezer shtick, and have found themselves increasingly desperate to reach inside his motor and send his automatic window shooting skywards. With his head still in it.

Let's be honest: we put up with it because it amuses us, Redknapp being one of footballs 'characters' and all, but we have effective ways of escaping his wobbly patois. We can switch channel, turn the page or stream some porn. For these guys in the press, Harry is their job. He's their life – seven days a week, twelve months a year (premium rates apply during transfer windows). So what if we’ve gotten it all wrong? Maybe we should actually have been pitying them, for what if getting Redknapp the England job was part of a grand, dastardly plan? It’s a classic hustle: elevate one man to an inflated position of importance, get him sat on the throne, and then when he fails, tear down the walls and set fire to his castle. Except now Redknapp’s frenemies are angry and confused because Hodgson might just be a success, and they'll never have the chance to bring down the man we incorrectly considered to be one of them. It was an inside job this whole time, but now the FA have gone and ruined it all by anointing someone else in Redknapp's place. Their anger will need a new focus and Hodgson, you feel, will make an excellent punching bag.

Flights of Machiavellian fancy aside, the demotion of Redknapp from shoo-in to also-ran may merely be because he was a victim of timing. He was the man of the moment for sure, but then England has a penchant for seizing on glorious moments with little thought for what's to come or what has gone before. It would have been depressingly fitting for the powers that be to have chosen popularity over pragmatism. In Hodgson, they've invested in a man of experience and grace, a wise owl who, if you believe the stories, was approached in 2000 following Kevin Keegan's shower room resignation, but FC Copenhagen – his employers at the time – were unwilling to do business. Some would say the FA should have tried harder, and they'd probably be right, but the glamorous Euro-lure of Sven eventually proved tough to resist as Adam Crozier sought to rebrand England as a savvy, forward thinking football power. File that one alongside the Royal Mail.

The irony is that after years of flitting between the roguish and the voguish, all this time England had an international manager of their own right under their very noses. It's been a rollercoaster couple of years for Croydon's second son (after Dane Bowers, naturally). Having finally started to receive the respect he deserved in his homeland by guiding Fulham from the relegation zone to the Europa League final, Hodgson travelled to Liverpool to take over from the departing Rafa Benitez, who had checked himself into an asylum or something. But what should have been the crowning moment of his career fell flat in no time at all, as, left to chill under the imposing shadow of Kenny Dalglish, he failed to win over players and supporters alike following mixed results and some regrettable purchases. With King Kenny lurking upstairs honing his interview technique, Hodgson was gone in a shade over six months.

Wounded, Hodgson sough solace at the Hawthorns with West Brom and, having observed his Craven Cottage exploits, the watching world assumed that this would be the level at which he would remain, seeing out his managerial days as a motivator of mid-range teams, occasionally peaking, but mostly coasting. Redemption – if it were required – arrived via a 1-0 victory at Anfield in April. Disowned and discharged for the simple crime of not being someone else, this was the Hodgson version of a single-digit salute to the Kop.

Yet it is exactly this knack of drawing lifeblood from modest stones that arguably makes him the perfect man to guide England forward, although there must, of course, be a word or two of caution. Hodgson has signed a contract to take him through to the 2016 European Championship finals in France, a period which, if he sees it through, would represent his longest single managerial placement since his spell with Malmo. That ended in 1989. As much as this writer wants him to succeed, the knowledge is there that Hodgson isn't known as one to hang around. The tonic to that may be that such a nomadic personality has finally taken on a job which will let him lay down some roots.

Rather in contrast to his reputation as a safe pair of hands, Hodgson possess something of a managerial wanderlust, a restless desire to take on challenges in different countries and continents. He has trekked from the Swedish second division to the English Premier League via the United Arab Emirates and just about every point on the footballing compass in between, but perhaps now, like the youthful adventurer growing envious of his marrying and breeding peers, he has finally chosen to settle down. In keeping with his brave and contrary CV, he's chosen an unlikely patch to call home.

Given a fair crack of the whip, Hodgson could be just the thing English football needs. He has a wealth of European and international experience stuffed in his pocket, as well as a demeanour which can move between calm reassurer and enraged hairdryer as and when required. He should be able to position himself as a father figure for the younger players within the squad on one hand, and a firm-but-fair ruler on the other. With a generation of players like Wilshire, Cleverley, Welbeck, Sturridge and Oxlade-Chamberlain gradually emerging larvae-like from their cocoons, and with a spine of Joe Hart, Scott Parker and Wayne Rooney around which to mould their infant talents, England may have a generation worth rooting for. He’s got a huge task on his hands, but Hodgson has earned his chance. He’ll persevere when things get tough, and if his team threatens to fly he’ll keep his feet on the ground. Let’s keep the vegetables there too.

~ Matt

The Messiah?

There’s this recurring nightmare I have. It takes place somewhere in Spain – at a football match to be precise, set against the baying backdrop of hot-blooded supporters filling the stands of some non-specific La Liga team. It’s not a particularly ill-disciplined game and everything seems to be going just dandy until, in the matter of just a few short moments, the course of footballing history finds itself forever altered in a shocking and cruel fashion. As you may have guessed, the man responsible for this seismic event is none other than me.

My side, whoever they may be, are up against Barcelona and there on the touchline, careening towards me like a miniature cyclone, is Lionel Messi. You know him: short chap, Argentinean international, Barcelona No. 10 and, oh yes, quite probably the most gifted footballer of his, or maybe even any other, generation. The crucial moment of my nocturnal ordeal comes as Messi dashes past me. I pivot and plunge a leg out towards this haze of red and blue in a desperate and doomed attempt to win the ball. I don’t catch him, but I do knock him off balance and as he falls to the turf below, a sickening crack rings out. It's the kind of ghastly noise which can't possibly be good, and to an hombre the crowd falls silent. Messi is grounded, writhing in visceral agony as those pitch-side hold their hands to their mouths. Several hours and an x-ray later and the bleak news is confirmed: I hadn’t just broken Messi’s stride, I’d simply broken him. Our momentary meeting proves to be the final, tragic act of his still nascent career.

The upshot of all this is that I’m plunged overnight into the spotlight of the world’s media, re-branded from ‘jobbing Liga midfielder’ to ‘The Man Who Ended Messi’. Unable to cope with this cold and horrid truth, I flee my home and my club, eventually seeking refuge in the only place whose residents I know for sure won’t chase me through the streets pitchfork-in-hand. That place is Madrid. As I enter through the towering city gates (my dreams aren't necessarily known for their infrastructural accuracy), freshly printed billboards appear to adorn the walls of every building, bank and cathedral in sight. There, staring down across the land, holding his minions in regal gaze, stands a literally larger-than-life Cristiano Ronaldo. He looks imperious and clean and content to allow but the merest hint of a smirk to escape the side of his mouth. The sentence printed beneath him is simple, bold and brutally direct; six little words which together make up his new, undisputed title: “The Best Player in the World”.

And then I wake up. Eternally relieved that I haven't inadvertently robbed the world of a sporting great, my waking joy often ends up tempered when I remember that there are individuals in our midst not entirely enthralled by the continued rise of Messi and his Barcelona cohorts. Hard as it is to believe, there are persons out there claiming to be bored not just of young Lionel himself, but of the consistently awe-inspiring performances of his club too, which is a bit like claiming to be bored of happiness or magic. To these people I have this to say: football evidently isn't your thing. Take up stamp collecting. Or bird watching. Or jogging. Remove yourself from the fray. Find solace in a quiet room and think hard about just how very, very wrong you are.

Lets us sane people take a moment to analyse the raw data. Messi has scored 158 goals in 208 games for Barcelona. He has won 18 major club honours, including five league titles and three Champions Leagues. He has received the Ballon d'Or three years in a row now and you'd be a gambler of Dostoyevsky-esque proportions to bet against number four being anything less than imminent. He plays with the confidence of a warrior and a dynamism as beguiling as it is bountiful and the scariest part of all of this is that he is just 24 years old. I have bad news for those aforementioned joyless folk: the lad's not going anywhere for a while yet.

Puzzlingly, this failure to embrace greatness seems to be most prevalent in Messi's own country. In a Time magazine feature published earlier this year, it is noted that Messi has not been lovingly embraced in his native Argentina and is often viewed, despite his Herculean achievements, as one of “them” and not one of “us”. The ‘them’ referred to is of course Catalonia. As an autonomous community historically wrestling with its own identity, the position of FC Barcelona at the region's beating heart has inevitably led to Messi's elevation to poster-boy status. The club's current golden era of success has been lovingly built around a grass roots ideology of which Messi himself is the prize crop of an enviously high yield.

The problem seems to be that Messi may be a little hard to fall in love with and, as frustratingly illogical as it may feel, I can kind of see what they're saying. Ironically, given his apparent outsider status in his homeland, it's arguable that he somehow doesn't quite live up the classic image of the footballing legend, perhaps coming across as a little bit safe, a little too good in terms of temperament and tone. It's true that he has rarely fallen foul to poor discipline and although those prone to mass replay-viewing point to a niggling tendency to fall a little too easily, he is generally viewed as a well turned out young man. And this may be what frustrates some.

For all his dazzling ability and otherworldly finesse, Messi doesn't quite embody the wildheart spirit of his forefather Diego Maradona and other footballing heroes of yore. He may be a pint-sized blur of flesh and bone, a stocky whirlwind of balletic brilliance, dancing past the flailing limbs of lesser mortals, but he appears to have also broken the mould of the reckless matador teetering perilously on the brink of implosion; the crazed maverick eternally tangoing across the high, dividing wire between majesty and madness. Romantics fear the clean-cut of his jib, but even so: can't he still be the messiah even if he isn't a very naughty boy?

In all honesty, quite probably. But perhaps there's more to it than that. Perhaps the most idyllic thing about Messi isn't actually anything to do with Messi at all, but rather the fact there he lives in a parallel trajectory to Ronaldo. This great rivalry, whilst perhaps most fearsome in the minds of onlookers, is something maybe even more indicative of greatness. Indeed, a nice old-fashioned rivalry can spur good men towards great things, adding an extra personal dimension to a pre-existing competitive spirit. Think Borg and McEnroe. Or Frazier and Ali. Or Frasier and Niles, if that's more your thing. It's a classic image: two men reaching for the very same spotlight, one destined to stand a-glow, the other a few feet to the side and a fraction more dimly lit.

All of which makes you feel a little sorry for Ronaldo, if indeed such a counter-intuitive emotional state is actually possible. For all his indisputable excellence, the Portuguese appears destined to be forever remembered as the second best player of his generation, a frustrated Steve Backley to Messi's Olympian Jan Železný. Such a state of affairs is understandably vexing, for in another time Ronaldo would be the king of the castle and would have truly owned the years prior to his own emergence. Over the past decade the Brazilian duo of Kaká and Ronaldinho both laid fair claim to be the worlds best, and yet both faded fast and didn't manage to define an era the way Pele, Maradona, Ferenc Puskás or Johann Cruyff did. Messi will surely one day be spoken of in those terms, if he isn't already. On mere talent alone Ronaldo is possibly deserving of a place alongside, but the fates will almost certainly dictate a lesser legacy onto the pages of time.

None of which pondering should detract from the fact that we are witnessing a moment of grand footballing luxury, as two great practitioners compete in the same league and for the same trophies with two clubs so historically adversarial the whole thing almost feels like a script ripped from the hands of some wild-eyed, opium-guzzling dramatist. To have but one of them honing their art before our eager eyes week in, week out would still be a treat indeed. To have two feels a little like being spoiled.

Moreover, Messi is in many respects illustrative of the characteristics his footballing generation represents – not only a specimen of peak physical fitness, but also a man content to play a part in a larger whole, as contemporary tactical systems evolve to favour function over fantasy. As peerless as he may be, it should never be said that he carries Barcelona. What he does is merely add that extra layer of quality to a team hell-bent on keeping the flame of total football burning. 

You hope time is on his side, although there is a worry that such are the demands placed upon the bodies of players today that the traditional idea of the late-twenties peak may actually be reducing by a few years. The aforementioned Brazilians hit their stride at around the age Messi is now, but within a few seasons had, for one reason or another, lost their way or just run out of steam. It is entirely possible of course that Messi hasn't reached his peak yet – and let's not forget that should he have the occasional off-day, we've got Ronaldo to keep us entertained. So for now let us savour the fact that a master walks among us – and pray that my dreams never, ever come true.

~ Matt

A Troubled Bridge Over Waters

In my life there are many things I'll never get to do. I realise I will never be Prime Minister. I understand I'll never ride an F-14 into the danger zone like Tom Cruise did in the bruising, Cold War epic Top Gun. I'm resigned to the fact I'll never execute a perfect far post volley at Old Trafford, bringing the crowd to its feet in ecstatic union, like Mark Hughes used to before he became a right mardy git. I'll never get the chance to suggest to Scarlett Johansson that we blow off dessert and head back to mine for a game of Subuteo (apparently she's a big fan).

I used to mourn the fact that I'd never be a Premier League manager, but these gloriously unpredictable times of ours lead me to believe that some things, however apparently fantastical, may actually be within my mortal grasp. I've calculated that I'm currently 18,957,024 (no, wait... 18,957,023) in line to be Chelsea manager, which by my admittedly dodgy arithmetic means I should be set to take the Stamford Bridge reins in around twenty-three years. I appreciate it's a long-shot, but I'm clearing my diary for the 2034/35 season just in case.

As much as the demise of each passing incumbent brings my moment (and it will be but a moment) in the spotlight ever closer, I have thus far taken no glee in my would-be predecessor’s assorted sufferings. Indeed, my stock reaction to each new Abramovictim has been one of empathy, but just lately I’m starting to grow decidedly colder to their predicaments. I know that when I pitch up at Chelsea – suit freshly pressed, Championship Manager CV in hand, bestubbled but not too bestubbled – I'll be the envy of many and the friend of relatively few, and as such will expect no public outpourings of sympathy should I fail to make the grade (although with a double FA Cup success as Leyton Orient boss under my belt, that seems pretty unlikely).

For you see, every Chelsea manager of the recent past has known the metaphorical score when they've signed on the possibly-metaphorical dotted line, and for the most recent casualty this was no different. As Andres Villa-Boas’ early self-confidence melted into strained bravado, the bullishness of his demeanour perhaps belied a certain amount of inexperience, naivety even. But ignorance is something to which he cannot feasibly lay claim. As a member of Jose Mourinho's backroom staff he would have known a darn sight more about the inner workings of Chelsea than most, and when the guillotine fell following last Sunday's lacklustre defeat at West Brom it will have brought the man himself sadness but hardly much surprise, despite his claims to be part of a newly minted long-termist club philosophy. So I’ve decided: no more sorry, for the next permanent Chelsea manager should know exactly what he’s getting himself into. Age is hardening me – which, frankly, is something any man should be grateful for.

If I feel anything for AVB it is perhaps an understanding of his twisted belief that he could fundamentally alter a club – and, perhaps most pertinently, a playing staff – so set in their ways. I'll change him, thinks the woman whose heart is taken by the grizzled anti-hero. I'll make him the man I want him to be. But, alas, she won't. The sad legacy of Villa-Boas' all too brief tenure appears to consist of little more than a divided dressing room and an opportunity for berks like me to hijack his initials for humorous purposes. As far as the man himself is concerned, I'm sure an alternative vacancy beckons. For Chelsea, it's another venture buried.

Ahem. Anyway, Chelsea's immediate future is now in the hands of Roberto Di Matteo, a man not considered worthy of a Hawthorns relegation battle (perhaps rightly, if you're a fan of hindsight) but with the advantage of being something of a club legend. Before injury cut his playing days cruelly short, Di Matteo was part of the side that shifted Chelsea's status from league also-rans to real contenders, helping to plunder the glut of late '90s silverware which made many across the globe – wealthy Russians included – sit up and take notice of the west Londoner's burgeoning global potential. If AVB's dismissal has brought about anything at all, it's a vaguely pleasing sense of full-circularness.

The days when Di Matteo stood on the other side of the touchline were a time of dreaming for Blues fans, moving up the table as they did position-by-position, progressing increment by careful increment, all the while attracting players of increasingly notable calibre. True, many were heading towards the twilight of their careers, but the arrivals of Ruud Gullit and Gianluca Vialli nonetheless paved the way for Marcel Desailly and Didier Deschamps and, as Champion's League qualification became the norm, so Chelsea's attractiveness became undeniable. But even so, investment was needed to make the next leap, and with financial turmoil brewing behind the scenes, Ken Bates handed the club he'd once saved over to Abramovich. The rest is history.

The irony is that, beginning with Bates' purchase, through Glenn Hoddle's transformative managerial stint, via the late Matthew Harding's passionate association and the signings of Zola, Hasselbaink and others, Chelsea had actually been moving gradually towards the top of the English tree. After the title successes of Mourinho came at last a Champion's League final, and with it the moment of truth had arrived, the metamorphosis almost complete.

How small the margins of fate; how precarious and slippery the turf underfoot. A John Terry penalty placed six inches to the left and Chelsea would have been kings of Europe. Such a triumph may not have saved Avram Grant his job, but it would surely have assured Abramovich  – so often a man of whim and fancy, discarding managers like society girls toss away posh frocks – that his investment had reaped the ultimate reward. It may have mellowed his anxiety just a little. A year ago Carlo Ancelotti, the previous victim of the Russian's itchy trigger finger, described Chelsea's quest to conquer Europe as “a dream”. He meant it in the positive sense of course, but their failure to turn fantasy into reality has left Abramovich with his head in the clouds, with little-to-no semblance of grounded thought. His apparent willingness to try a little long-term planning has been rapidly extinguished, his latest panic attack brought about by the water-to-the face dousing that missing out on Champion's League qualification would mean.

The underlying issue for all involved now is quite what Abramovich has up his sleeve come the summer. With AVB's scalp now joining the deer's head parade above the faux-rustic fireplace in Roman's penthouse suite – stuffed, preserved and mounted; a macabre exhibit for the personal pleasure of a cruel huntsman – it seems few managers are eager to be the next stag to wander in front of the crosshairs. Some have mentioned Barcelona’s Pep Guardiola as a possible long-term successor. As I write these words, Lionel Messi is calmly going about ripping Bayer Leverkusen a new one, guiding his team to yet another quarter final in a competition they have in recent years dominated with an almost sadistic lustre.

Guardiola arguable represents in microcosm everything Abramovich dreams of, and before my eyes his beguiling team are once more showing the watching world what can be achieved when planning, perseverance, talent and tolerance co-exist in blissful harmony. The Barcelona of today is a side that has grown and matured organically: a sporting and cultural enterprise built meticulously from the ground up, from the school kids to the superstars, arriving now at what must be some kind of modern footballing zenith. Chelsea, meanwhile, once again find themselves at the very beginning.

Quite whether Di Matteo's short-term appointment will provide the unifying catalyst needed to turn Chelsea's season around is little more than a guessing game at this juncture. But what I know for certain is that when I eventually get to add my own little personal touches to the manager's office at Cobham – a photo of Scarlett here, a novelty Stamford the Lion there – I'll be sure to cast a cautious glance towards the owners office, as the chances are I'll be summoned there before too long. I won't be able to miss it – it's the one just across the corridor, with the sign that reads: “You don't have to be mad to work here... just to own it.”

~ Matt

Part Ref, Part Machine, All Wrong (Part II)

Having made quite the impression on its officiating début, Fifa's WhistleBot3000 prototype has been thrown into the action full-time, tasked with keeping our petulant Premier League stars on the straight and narrow for the remainder of the 2011/12 season.

In the second part of our exclusive report, we catch up with the fearsome law enforcer and his new FA colleagues as they attempt to win over the hearts and minds of a sceptical public. But as you'll see, things don't go quite to plan, and before long matters get much, much worse...

(If you missed 'Part I', you can catch up right here)

* * *

Wednesday 14^th March, 2012, 14:20

Hattlewhich Primary School, Lincolnshire, England

In an effort to remove some of the mystique from their new recruit, the FA takes it's futuristic officiating team out on a 'WhistleBotStop' tour of local schools and football clubs. The sessions involve a display of the WhistleBot's functions, which include the always-impressive InstaTranslation, an in-built voice recognition tool which immediately picks out offensive terms from over two hundred languages, a feature it is hoped will drive dissent from today's multinational game.

In the sleepy town of Hattlewhich, Lincolnshire, Head of Modern Languages Mr Childs is asked to help with a demonstration by insulting the WhistleBot in a dialect of his choice. After unleashing a light-hearted tirade of French metaphor and simile, Mr Childs is shown a yellow card, much to the amusement of the onlooking pupils. Unfortunately, Mr Childs takes too long leaving the demonstration area, leading to the WhistleBot carrying out one if it's more controversial procedures, the AntiCooperation stun hold.

After the local paramedics depart, the day ends with a rather stilted question & answer session, followed by a chance for students to have their homework diaries imprinted with the WhistleBot's e-signature. Most in attendance are too afraid to approach.

Saturday 7^th April, 2012, 10:41

Nuneaton, Warwickshire, England

In an interview with The Sun newspaper, league referee Stuart Attwell speaks of his displeasure at being repeatedly overlooked for high profile fixtures in favour of the WhistleBot. “It seems the FA have lost faith in their own officials”, claims Attwell. “It's a real worry for those of us who have worked tirelessly to improve standards in the game from within and I fear a mutiny from my refereeing colleagues isn't far away.”

The interview is published on the same day that the WhistleBot sends Manchester City manager Robert Mancini to the stands for looking like a moody Italian tosser, arguably it's least controversial decision so far. Critics, however, claim that the WhistleBot is showing increasing signs of both on-field belligerence and off-field misbehaviour. Fifa are unavailable for comment.

Wednesday 11^th April, 2012, 23:20

Kensington, West London, England

After taking charge of the Chelsea vs Barcelona Champion's League semi-final second leg at Stamford Bridge, the WhistleBot is snapped by paparazzi leaving several exclusive bars in London's West End. Later in the night the official is spotted partying with celebrities at the Soho's famous Groucho Club, accompanied by the LinesWomanZX931. The WhistleBot is reported to have emerged from the rest rooms looking “twitchy” and, after knocking back champagne with stars of hit show The Only Way Is Essex, spends several minutes chatting with James Corden, a discussion which, according to concerned onlookers, quickly turned “animated” when the WhistleBot sends a rather saucy message directly the BlackBerry of Corden's female companion.

Corden is next seen several hours later leaving London's Princess Grace Hospital holding an ice pack to his cheek and mumbling something about giving “that copper-plate **** a straight red of his own... I've got money... I know people...”

Sunday 15^th April, 2012, 17:18

Wembley Stadium, London, England

The WhistleBot is placed in charge of the FA Cup semi-final between Liverpool and Millwall. Controversy erupts midway through the second half when chants of “the WhistleBot's a *******” lead to the entire Millwall end being placed in a laser-guided holding cell until the end of extra time. This results in several thousand singed scalps and the accidental incineration of a home-made tinfoil replica trophy.

Monday May 14^th 2012, 04:03

Toxteth, Merseyside, England

Having described the WhistleBot's placing of James Perch into a coma-like hypersleep following a two-footed lunge on Darren Gibson during Newcastle's final day encounter at Everton as “an astonishing abuse of power”, Match Of The Day pundit Alan Hansen is reported to have arrived at Toxteth police station later the same night dazed, shivering and apparently delirious, gabbling incoherently that “it's after me... the thing... the m... m... metal thing... it wants to k...kill me... it's got Mark... OH JESUS IT'S GOT MARK!”.

The next day colleague Mark Lawrenson is officially listed by Merseyside police as “missing, presumed vaporised”.

Sunday 1^st July 2012, 11:31

Olympic Stadium, Kiev, Ukraine

Despite it's burgeoning off-field issues – which include a charge of possessing controlled substances and eight separate accusations of assault – Fifa decide to go ahead with it's much-criticised plan to allow the WhistleBot and it's team to take charge of the European Championship final between Germany and Spain.

In an interview broadcast live on the morning of the final, the WhistleBot, holding a cold compress to it's forehead and abruptly ending calls from someone only identifiable as “Lana”, states that today represents the proudest moment of it's six thousand year lifespan so far. This is despite 'pride' being supposedly placed on an encoded, in-built 'emotion blacklist' by the official's creators.

Sunday 1^st July, 2012, 20:06

Olympic Stadium, Kiev, Ukraine

Uefa's showpiece occasion is thrown into disarray following the sixth minute dismissal of Spain’s Gerard Pique. The Barcelona defender is given his marching orders after the WhistleBot spots him brandishing an imaginary card following a halfway line collision between team-mate Andreas Iniesta and Germany’s Sami Khedira. Pique’s cries of innocence fall on deaf ears and are soon silenced outright as the official sends him to the dressing room, regretfully by throwing him straight down the tunnel by his arms. “I wasn’t holding up a card,” protests the stricken Spaniard from his stretcher. “I was just waving to my girlfriend in the crowd.”

The final is eventually won 2-1 on penalties by Germany following 120 goalless minutes. The game should have been abandoned after a record thirteen players are sent off, but the WhistleBot forces the match to continue in scenes described by one member of the attending press as “like something you'd see in a slave colony”. The game finally ends when a tearful Cesc Fabregas sends his penalty over the bar (apparently on purpose), before sinking to his knees and sobbing, “make it stop... just make it stop”.

Monday 2^nd July, 13:28

Fifa HQ, Zurich, Switzerland

The WhistleBot is summoned before Fifa's Executive Committee to answer questions relating to it's recent behaviour, and to respond to rumours that the LinesWomanZX931 has fallen pregnant by the WhistleBot, seemingly as part of a grand plan to produce it's own army of merciless robot officials. Unfortunately the WhistleBot shows itself to have become almost completely self-aware, brutally attacking several ExCo members currently facing corruption charges before destroying the building and laying waste to several surrounding streets, growling ominously, “NEXT STOP: LONDON”.

From beneath the rubble of his office, Sepp Blatter makes a desperate phone call to the FA's Wembley headquarters, attempting to warn them of the WhistleBot's intentions before it's too late.

Monday 2^nd July, 14:51

Nuneaton, Warwickshire, England

The phone in Stuart Attwell's kitchen rings. “Stuart, thank God you're there, this is Mike Riley. I think we’ve made a terrible mistake. The WhistleBot is out of control and heading for London. I know that... no, listen, Stuart... I know that we shouldn't have abandoned you. We're sorry and we want you and your colleagues back. Please help us! What do you say? Will you come back? Stuart? No, don't hang up Stuart! Stuart? Stua...”

The line goes dead.

~ Matt