Monday Night Fever

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~ Matt

The Revolutionary Kind

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~Matt

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

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

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

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

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

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

~ Ed & Matt 

* * *

Matt's Predictions

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

FA Cup - West Brom

League Cup - Liverpool

Champions League - Real Madrid

Europa League - Borussia Dortmund

Top Scorer - Javier Hernandez (Manchester United)

Biggest Surprise - Wolves. Comfortable mid-table finish.

Biggest Disappointment - Gervinho (Arsenal).

Ed's Predictions

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

FA Cup – Manchester City

League Cup – Arsenal

Champions League – Barcelona

Europa – Roma

Top Scorer – Andy Carroll (Liverpool)

Biggest Surprise – Stoke in the Europa (QF)

Biggest Disappointment – Arsenal's league finish

Triesman On The High Seas

This past Tuesday, Brazilian FA president and presumed Gilbert and Sullivan aficionado Ricardo Teixeira branded the British “a bunch of pirates”, vowing to “make their lives hell” should he ever succeed Sepp Blatter as FIFA supremo. Teixeira, lest we should somehow forget, was targeted along with several other FIFA big cheeses in the BBC's fateful Panorama broadcast of November last year. You remember that don’t you? It managed to refocus the foggy light of doubt on FIFA’s finances whilst (some would argue) simultaneously torpedoing the nation's hopes of hosting the 2018 World Cup. Having been clocked in his not-inconsiderable jaw by the full force of the Beeb’s journalistic wrath, Teixeira – one-time son in law of former FIFA president João Havelange – clearly had some swashbuckling words to get off of his chest.

It’s been an eventful week all told for Blatter and co, what with recent challenger Mohammed Bin Hammam finding himself banned from the federation for life after being found guilty of crude envelope-stuffing. The accused didn't even show up in court to hear the judgement, instead deploying a crack team of legal eagles to fight his corner. Bin Hammam explained his no-show by stating that he believed his fate was predetermined, hinting that an appeal was already being prepped long before the ruling had even been passed. Either this was a bold critique of the very concept of free will, or a simple distrust of the federation’s judicial principles. I wouldn’t like to nail my colours to the mast either way; although I will say that FIFA could probably learn a thing or two from the pirate code of conduct.

To be honest, I just don't know who to believe any more. The more criss-crossed the finger pointing becomes, the more unseemly the whole charade gets, like some endless game of drunken Cluedo: Bin Hammam, in the Hyatt Regency, with the unmarked bills. Somewhere someone important is telling fibs, but having tried to force a coup and failed, the power of many is now resolutely against Bin Hammam. It's times like these that FIFA closes ranks and rallies behind its great leader, hoping sheer strength in numbers will be enough to fight off any growing mutiny. Best of luck with the appeal, old chap.

And yet it’s possible our merry band of buccaneers may not be alone on the waves for long, as this Wednesday European Club Association (ECA) chairbod Karl-Heinze Rummenigge damned FIFA for viewing cash flow as “more important than serious and clean governance”. Sometimes I like to pretend that ExCo members aren't merely indebted to Blatter, but are in fact acting under some ungodly, mind-control hoodoo, beholden to a cunning preceptor of suggestion. They're all good-natured, morally-upstanding sorts really, it's just that Blatter has put the whammy on them. If Sepp tells you something's clean, then it's clean. Be grateful he doesn't do your windows.

Teixeira, meanwhile, went on to position himself away from any perceived wrongdoing on the ExCo's part. “Look me in the face and tell me that I'd say something as stupid as asking for a bribe in front of everyone, right there in the stands”, he insoucianced, as a thousand journalists bit their tongues in painful unison. Not that such a statement should be twisted into an arse-about-face admission of guilt, of course. It is notable, however, that he failed to deny any alleged wrongdoing on the part of his peers, his words not at all leaving open the possibility that there might exist more private places to perform such carry on, if one were so inclined. Everyone knows that the really big deals go down far way from prying eyes anyway.

In truth, Teixeira's words make me sad, and not just because of their belligerent tone. It’s more to do with their reinforcement of the grim stereotype of men in positions of power failing to shoulder equivalent responsibility. For someone hoping to one day run for head office, there's some seriously questionable logic behind brazenly bad-mouthing your electorate (something Gordon Brown would no doubt testify to).

And also: pirates? Really? Given a choice of brigandish epithet, that's surely not the dangerous, slicked-back, devil-may-care image our FA would have gone for. If FIFA must paint them as a rabble-rousing mob of no-goodniks, they could at least go for something a little more contemporary and catchy. Like 'cyberpunks'. Or 'News-Corpers'.

Regrettably, I now close my eyes at night only to dream of Richard Scudamore in a tricorne, stood high in the crow's nest of the good ship World Cup Bid, telescope pushed close to his one good eye, as David Beckham performs keepy-uppies on the poop deck with his peg leg, and David Cameron issues telegraphs from the mainland telling them everything's fine, just don't mention the bribes. All of which, were it real, would presumably make Price William the cabin boy, although I should really bring this analogy to a halt now – us Brits can still be executed for treason, you know.

In fact, what truly disheartens me is that Teixeira's denouncement is depressingly symptomatic of the ExCo's fight-fire-with-fire tactics; a supposedly harmonious “family” (Blatter's word, not mine) reduced to name calling and narrow-eyed threats of vengeance. I'm shocked no-one’s aimed a jibe at Captain Scudamore's mum. Yet.

For it's own part, the FA are usually quick to meet FIFA’s insults and inconsistencies with the always-popular tactic of stamping their feet and crying “IT'S NOT FAIR!” at the top of their lungs like a disenfranchised teen. Yes we were denied the World Cup, and while there are various aspects of FIFA’s conduct which stink like a Shoreditch gents', getting huffy won't make the problem go away. So, instead of spitting the dummy, why not be the bigger men and take a more proactive stand? Let’s revoke our membership and encourage others to follow suit. Hit FIFA where it chafes the most: in the wallet. Swipe their bounty. Bury their treasure. It's what any pirate worth his salt would do.

~ Matt

Cesc And The City

July 2011. London. As a long, football-less summer shelters from the warm rain, we find scattered across the nation's capital four successful, cosmopolitan twentysomethings, virile and gifted young men, hungry in the pursuit of happiness.

Cesc, 24, is the titular star of our show. By day he leads a respected Islington-based performance troupe, but by night yearns for his Catalan homeland. Despite his tender age, Cesc has been shouldering huge responsibility as his employees fail to meet their targets year upon year. His once-adoring public are growing doubtful of his commitment to the cause. Tellingly, so is he.

A few miles away in a Tottenham coffee shop sits Luka, the creative force behind Hotspur Productions, an up-and-coming business owned by a savvy investor and managed by a shrill Cockney, with whom Luka enjoyed a top, top relationship until recently. Over the past few weeks Luka has let it be known that he sees his future away from Hotspur Productions, not least because the local coffee is quite frankly piss-poor.

Like Cesc, Samir – a Frenchman by trade – appreciates the finer things in life, educated in the ways of life by a respected artisan tutor. He currently finds himself slumming it in a rented Asburton Grove living space as lofty as the ideas taught within. Samir creates tirelessly, but craves the tangible rewards he feels his avant-garde gifts surely merit.

Meanwhile, lying prone on a masseur’s table somewhere in Shepherd's Bush, Adel has troubles of his own. A few years ago he had a shot at the big time, but fame proved a saucy seductress and the myriad temptations of the city – the glitz and the glitterati and the Ledley King guest lists – saw his focus flounder and in a blink he was just another could've-been, knocked back down the career ladder. Adel dreams of Europe, of Paris in the spring. His boss, Neil, doesn't approve of this sort of thing at all.

While their backstories may differ, it is the here-and-now which ties these men together. Their shared dream is one of ambition, a desire to achieve and to be recognised. Whilst their lives aren't exactly barren, none of the four are truly contented; merely satisfied. One thing these glowing young ruffians have in common is a determination to exercise power over their employers, to drive forth their personal aspirations. But the institutions which nurtured their talent, which helped them become what they are today, will be the ones left behind.

Seeing all this, I couldn't help but wonder – isn't it about time clubs took the power back?

As I sit and ponder the current transfer whirlwind, I'm frantically scanning my Budweiser-stained memory-hole to recall the last time a major transfer went through strictly on the selling club’s terms. I'm coming up rather blank.

When Jean-Marc Bosman donned a pair of shackles to demonstrate (rather heavy-handedly, but that's footballers for you) the perceived unfairness of remaining bound to a club even after a contract had expired, what resulted was a legal landmark which irreversibly re-stitched the fabric of the game. And while this outcome blessed footballers with hitherto unseen freedom of movement, it also came at a time when the game's finances were starting to swell lasciviously. Sensing that the moment was right to claim their own piece of the pie, competitors at all levels did the one thing that made any sense at all: they got better agents.

Not that any of this is even news. Agents and players; players and agents – we all know the score when it comes to transfers. Frankly, imagining any major deal being concluded via “the proper channels” any more seems so naive as to render the very idea itself almost meaningless. But in notable regard to the foursome detailed above, how did players still duty bound to perform for their clubs become so fearlessly empowered? In classic Lloyd Grossman style, let's look at the evidence:

Most obviously, there's the Champions League, the Holy Grail of the club game. It's where every player wants to be. Such is the exuberant media coverage it's given, and the prestige now attached to winning it (arguably overshadowing even the World Cup), it seems that if you're not there then you're no-one.

But what about the likes of Fabregas and Nasri who are already there? Their power comes from within, flexed from a position of superiority, understanding that their God-given kicking ability is so good that any mention of moving onwards and upwards sends rival chief execs scrabbling for the expense account card, while the matchday room staff scours the sofas for lost pennies. Cesc and Samir don’t just want to be in the thing; they want to win it.

The key here is simple, dumb ambition. When a player cites it, it's because they believe – know, even – that their current employer can't match it, financially or otherwise. What's more, they'll never be able to until they break into the elite. Which they won't do without the very best players, and so begins a self-perpetuating cycle that would make even a Fleet Street editor's head spin.

On a sliding scale of “bum” to “Apprentice winner”, you'd ideally want your own favourite player's ambition levels to be hovering somewhere around the Carrie Bradshaw mark. They're driven, sure, but not enough to turn their back on their friends, no matter how many promises of Manolo Blahniks and weekends in The Hamptons Mr Big might be teasing down the phone from his waterbed on the Lower East Side. Indeed, if Sex and the City has taught us anything, it's that ambition and loyalty needn't be mutually exclusive. Your average footballer clearly isn't a fan.

So how to combat player power? Maybe clubs need to fight fire with fire and take a more uncompromising approach to contract negotiations. “A five year deal? Sure, all yours. A weekly pay packet equivalent to the GDP of Fiji? No problem – here, use my pen. Just one thing though – walk away from us before we're good and ready, and you'll invoke our new 'branding' clause, which allows the kit man to scald the word 'JUDAS' onto your forehead, broadcast live from the centre circle, before the last home game of the season. See how that plays down at Chinawhite.”

Not that ambition is intrinsically a bad thing. Where would the world be without it? I'd be writing this in quill and ink for starters, while the 'laptop' forever remained the fevered dream of some misunderstood visionary who would invent it tomorrow if he could only tear himself away from E4's Frasier marathon. For better or worse, players now own the power and clubs can but throw money at the issue.

Cesc, Luka, Samir and Adel know all this because they're modern men, wise to the times in which they live. For them the future is ripe with opportunity – each new club merely another step on the road to perfection; each career choice a cocktail with a silly name.

Like the city, football is a playboy-populated, dog-eat-dog world all of its own. There’s triumph to be found, but at what cost? Sadly for clubs, the power they want back may already have skipped town.

~ Matt