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