Devils & Dust

So, Manchester United then. It's been a funny old season so far for the reigning champions, flitting as they have between dazzling attacking prowess and unfocused, unsightly fumbling. Some things remain sacred, of course – their unrelinquishing position in the Premier League top two, renewed spats with Liverpool and Manchester City, the continued poise and finesse of Paul Sch... Ah yes, Scholes, the apparent answer – in the short-term at least – to Sir Alex Ferguson’s burgeoning midfield crisis (I made a bet with myself that I could make it to the third paragraph without using the 'c' word. I owe me a tenner).

Last weekend’s FA Cup derby saw Scholes become subject of the most unlikely Sunday reanimation since that very first Easter, the rambunctious midfielder brushing seven months worth of dust from his Puma King’s (probably) to reintroduce himself to the professional game. Scholes’ class won’t have vanished since May; the worry is more about what sort of United team he is stepping back into. For the first time since Roy Keane was jettisoned from the Theatre of Dreams amidst rumours of x-rated TV outbursts (and against a context of rival upward mobility) the manager is facing some hefty questions regarding the ultimate direction of his team.

For approaching twenty years now United have been to the English game what an Adele single is to daytime radio – omnipresent, overpowering and, to those supporters donning rival colours, decidedly disliked. Since the mid-90s, Scholes has been at the heart of United’s domination, his place in the pantheon of United greats so assured that he has his very own selection box of stock phrases and clichés from which fitting description can be picked. Just as George Best before him ('supremely talented', 'an eye for the ladies’, ‘drank it all away') could be immortalised in a handful of oft-repeated epithets, so Scholes' talent, nee his career, will forever be communicated to the uninitiated via similar sound bites. For you see, Scholes, despite 'being wasted on the left for England' and 'never learning to tackle’, was arguably 'the most talented British player of his generation', even if away from the field he was 'a bit shy and, er, retiring'. What else? Well he had a knack for getting himself in the box and will be forever remembered for a couple of complete screamers against Middlesbrough and Bradford, but he also kept possession with great intelligence, and it is largely for this reason that Sir Alex will be glad to welcome him back into the fold.

Much like his side this term, Scholes was/is a player of contradictions. He barely troubled an interviewer throughout his entire career, appearing modest to the point of introversion, yet he could snap into a tackle with unbelievable venom. For a player of such guile and ingenuity, he didn't half make some stupid challenges. All fair enough, of course – as with most of the greats, the rough must be taken with the smooth, like Diego Maradonna's penchant for Columbian exports or Zinedine Zidane's dislike of sister jokes.

There are other reasons why Ferguson will be thrilled to have him back in the squad. He may feel that Scholes can re-establish a bond between the current squad and a time when everyone knew what United were about. This season we’re not so sure, and so the question must be asked: who are the real United? Are they the one that knocked three goals past their arch (title) rivals on Sunday, or the one that staggered about St James' Park ten days ago like a drunk waiting for the last tube? Are they the insatiable animal that knocked 14 goals past Tottenham, Chelsea and Arsenal in the space of 270 pulsating, late summer minutes, or are they the meek, wounded mutt that limped out of the Champions League with barely a whimper? Well, perhaps they are neither. Or possibly both. Reader, I'm confused.

As I'm sure you are too, for this season United have been a perplexing amalgam of beauty and befuddlement. Against a vibrant Newcastle they looked a side shorn of invention, lacking in drive, poise and, perhaps crucially, leadership, and yet, and yet. Four days later, they headed to the Etihad away dressing room after 45 minutes clutching a three goal lead and scenting blood. And then came… what? The hiccups? Nerves? The classic 'the-game’s-already-won syndrome'? Whichever it was, the truth is that no such heebie-jeebies would have been tolerated by Ferguson in days of yore. He simply wouldn't have permitted such carelessness; those terms just wouldn’t have existed within the club’s collective vocabulary. In truth, the game was essentially United’s season so far in a nutshell. For all the hand-wringing over Vincent Kompany's possible-deserved, possibly-not dismissal, United had taken the lead with the kind of blink-and-you'll-miss-it counter which they patented years ago. And despite City being unable to keep bad Kompany, you must wonder exactly how many teams would have pressed home their man advantage quite so ruthlessly. The only team to exploit numerical inequalities this season with such deadly focus has been City. Against United.

In their defence, you could read United's second half wobble as merely 'one of those things', or to conclude that City's impressive almost-comeback was a product of that very particular murmuring at the heart of so many glorious FA Cup ties; an intangible cocktail of history, guts and tossed-out rulebooks. For United, it could have all been so much more comfortable had the continually-impressive Danny Welbeck steered in Antonio Valencia’s low cross minutes before the interval. The difference, psychologically, could have been telling for both teams – to come back from three down is rare but do-able; from four is a collectors item indeed. The claim made against AC Milan, when 3-0 to the good against Liverpool at the break in Istanbul in 2005, was that they thought the game was already won. Liverpool had nothing to lose; Milan, conversely, had it all to throw away and eventually did just that. Such is the inherent, precarious peril of the three-nil lead; such is the illogical psychosis ingrained in the very nerve and sinew of football.

It’s rare for United fall foul to such quirks, but fall foul they very nearly did. At various points this season, not least in Europe, United’s ball-retention has been sloppy, the engine room lacking fire and the necessary man power to stoke the coals. Scholes’ cameo, despite erring for City’s second goal, came with a 97% pass completion rate. Much of this problem may be down to alterations not just in personnel, but also in style. Last season United were often sensible and unadventurous where in the past they went for broke, often in defiance of sense itself. The United of 2010/11 was often compact and functional, regaining the title in a less than vintage year for the top sides and reaching the Champions League final without conceding a goal on the road. The additions this season of Welbeck, Tom Cleverley and Ashley Young signalled a move towards a more virile and expansive approach, which paid dividends early on but has stalled worryingly of late.

There remain, inescapably, doubts about Ferguson himself. It has been noted recently by those in the know that the infamous hairdryer has been more or less switched off, stowed away in some memory box in the bowels of Old Trafford along with the boot he aimed at Beckham and the battering ram he took to Lee Sharpe's front door. Folk claim he’s gone soft, but his desire for a challenge seems to me to remain undiluted. Just last season he met Wayne Rooney's public letter of resignation with his most full and frank press conference ever, responding to questions of loyalty, ambition and power-shifts head-on, engaging the want-away Shrek-a-like in a remarkably ballsy game of chicken. It ultimately proved successful – Rooney signed on again and United took a record 19th league crown. If Ferguson's signature move is the mind game, then this proved his faculties to be as sharp as ever. In short, he still appears to be up for a scrap.

Perhaps the thing most questioned amongst the United faithful is their manager’s judgement when it comes to team selection. We've seen on numerous occasions the zippy Valencia stationed at right-back with Michael Carrick alongside due to defensive injuries. Time was Ferguson would have wasted little time in throwing a young buck into the domestic fray, something Scholes knows better than most. One is therefore left wondering what this policy means for talents such as the much-touted but little-used Paul Pogba. Cleverley has been heralded as potentially the first great home-grown future hero since the Class of '92, but this alone speaks of another issue. Whilst Chelsea have John Terry and Liverpool likewise Steven Gerrard, and although the severely under-rated Darren Fletcher has gone on to become a pivotal figure in both Ferguson's and a succession of Scotland manager's plans, the club hasn't produced a true local icon of it's own since the mid-nineties. 

I could of course get into the multitudinous issues surrounding the infrastructure at United, but I was hoping to set aside five minutes of this lifetime to get married and have kids. The key thing to remember is that perspective is often everything, not least when it comes to football. United have had dire luck with injuries, and the side Ferguson is in the midst of constructing sits three points off the top of the league having just defeated the title favourites on their own patch. The real shadow which lurks over United’s season is that Champion's League exit. Again, a little panoramic viewing might be in order. In 2005 United finished bottom of a group comprised of Villareal, Benfica and Lille. Two seasons later they were European champions.

Scholes' decision to come out of retirement echoes his boss’ own determination to continually push against the ever-ticking arms of time, a battle which cannot last forever. Ferguson's best sides undoubtedly come and go in cycles and he is now building what will surely be the final team of his reign. Whether old man time will allow him the chance to see it through to a successful end is, in a game defined equally by questions and egos, the biggest poser of them all.

~ Matt

Black Christmas

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~ Matt

A Few Words On Gary Speed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~ Matt

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

www.sportingchanceclinic.com/

I Got You, AVB

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~ Matt

International Rescue

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~ Matt