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

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

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

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

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Wednesday 14^th March, 2012, 14:20

Hattlewhich Primary School, Lincolnshire, England

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

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

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

Saturday 7^th April, 2012, 10:41

Nuneaton, Warwickshire, England

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

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

Wednesday 11^th April, 2012, 23:20

Kensington, West London, England

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

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

Sunday 15^th April, 2012, 17:18

Wembley Stadium, London, England

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

Monday May 14^th 2012, 04:03

Toxteth, Merseyside, England

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

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

Sunday 1^st July 2012, 11:31

Olympic Stadium, Kiev, Ukraine

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

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

Sunday 1^st July, 2012, 20:06

Olympic Stadium, Kiev, Ukraine

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

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

Monday 2^nd July, 13:28

Fifa HQ, Zurich, Switzerland

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

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

Monday 2^nd July, 14:51

Nuneaton, Warwickshire, England

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

The line goes dead.

~ Matt

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

Following fierce recent debate over refereeing standards amidst a spate of late, two-footed challenges, reports coming out of Zurich today suggest that Fifa has decidedly to finally get serious where football officiating is concerned. It's a problem plaguing the game worldwide. England’s referees, whilst trying their darndest to officiate this great game of ours, just can’t seem to keep up with today's lightening-paced action, being as they are all fleshy and fallible and such. With our pitches out of control and the fragile line between legal and illegal blurred to an almost indiscernible haze, something clearly must be done.

And so, after years of seeing the game's selfless mediators undermined by endless TV replays, hypercritical punditry and the instant, heated post-match reactions of managers and players alike, rumours have begun circulating that Fifa are set to unveil historic plans to restore a little matchday law and order.

By pure coincidence, Look Away Now recently stumbled across a rip in the space-time continuum in an alleyway in Soho (we were lost, honest) and decided take a trip into the near future. Having glimpsed the state of things to come, we can now bring you this exclusive, two-part report on the future of football officiating.

Brace yourselves...

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Thursday 2^nd February, 15:00

Fifa HQ, Zurich, Switzerland

Football's governing body has called a press conference to announce what it has termed “the future of football law enforcement”. The hastily-gathered press pack is to be treated to a first glimpse of Fifa's until-now top secret weapon against on-field indiscipline. Having apparently resisted calls to introduce technology into football for several years, grinning president Sepp Blatter cheerfully announces that this was all a bit of smoke and mirrors and that they have in fact spent the last four years working in partnership with Earth's most respected individuals in the fields of physics, engineering and robotics to create the ultimate football officiating machine.

As the watching world adjusts it's screens in disbelief, a curtain is lifted at the front of the room. “Ladies and gentlemen... OK, gentlemen... please put your hands together for the WhistleBot3000”. To a chorus of gasps, we are presented with what can only be described as a nine-foot tall robotic referee. “Any questions?”, beams Blatter. Several question follow, including “Are you serious?” and “No, really, are you serious??” Blatter confirms that, yes, he is indeed quite serious.

Thursday 2^nd February, 15:12

Fifa HQ, Zurich, Switzerland

Early technical issues, as a demonstration of the WhistleBot3000’s capabilities results in a small malfunction, causing a Reuters correspondent to lose an ear. “Whilst attempting a walk-through of a standard dismissal procedure, the WhistleBot temporarily lost control of it's red card, which was unfortunately dispatched across the press area. At roughly 138mph,” states a Fifa official, barely audible from his position cowering behind a whiteboard at the back of the room.

Despite these “teething problems”, Fifa announce that the WhistleBot3000 prototype – along with its two assistants, LinesManZX850 and LinesWomanZX931 – will make it’s first official appearance in the upcoming Scottish Premier League fixture between Rangers and Celtic. Suggestions that this may be a rather hostile introduction to a life of officialdom are casually batted away by Fifa officials, showing what some journalists report as a “callous disregard for public safety.” Rumours that they were referring to having to travel to Glasgow remain unconfirmed.

Sunday 12^th February, 12:42

Ibrox Stadium, Glasgow, Scotland

With only minutes to go before the twenty-eighth Old Firm clash of the season gets under way, the WhistleBot3000 leads the teams out onto the Ibrox pitch. The sight of the tungsten-reinforced official is met with a mixture of cheers and bemusement from the 51,000-strong capacity crowd, most of whom are wondering exactly how much they drank the night before.

After 21 incident-free minutes, the WhistleBot waves away the visitors' appeals for a penalty after an apparent handball by Ranger's Carlos Bocanegra. Neil Lennon’s charge from his technical area to remonstrate with the (humanoid) fourth official is swiftly dealt with by the WhistleBot, fixing it's LED-infused glare with Lennon’s and ordering immediate withdrawal back into his allotted touchline space, giving the Celtic boss “TWENTY SECONDS TO COMPLY.” Lennon, unsurprisingly, complies.

Tuesday 14^th February, 2012, 11:06

Wembley Stadium, London, England

Following a successful Old Firm debut, Fifa announces that the WhistleBot team will now be a regular fixture for the remainder of both the English Premier League and SPL seasons. “We're delighted to welcome the WhistleBot3000 and his assistants to England”, announces an undeniably nervous looking referee's chief Mike Riley, speaking to the gathered reporters, all the while shifting nervously in his seat. The WhistleBot, sat next to Riley, responds to a flurry of questions with a single, repeated, ominous mantra: “I AM THE LAW.”

To be continued...

Glory Glory Tottenham Hotspur?

There have been times when Tottenham Hotspur’s trajectory has been similar to that of the BBC’s bloated malcontent Alan Partridge; stumbling around reminding people of past glories, attempting to convince of a brighter future, almost reaching it but then sinking back again into mediocrity. But times may be changing down the Seven Sisters Road and while nobody believed Alan would ever again reach his previous dizzying heights, the media have begun to latch onto the idea that Tottenham may well be on the brink of something great. We’ve seen the typical headlines over the past couple of weeks heralding their title credentials, reaching a peak after the victory over Everton and then slightly deflating after this weekend’s draw with Wolves. So, is it realistic to even talk about Tottenham in relation to the title?

Firstly, purely mathematically, Tottenham are in the title race. They travel to Manchester City on Sunday and host Manchester United at the beginning of March.  Positive results in just these two games would dramatically change the lay of the land. The question is not can they mount a sustained challenge. It is will they? 

Looking at the squad and particularly the first eleven Tottenham haven’t looked this strong in over 25 years. The balance of a midfield comprising Bale, Modric, Parker and Lennon is the envy of many a manger and player alike. Parker has added a puritanical work ethic, harrying opposition in position, making lunging tackles and committing niggling fouls that disrupt oncoming attacks. Sandro, with his telescopic legs and intuitive positioning can add future solidity to the unit should it be needed. Modric has continued his deft midfield displays, nimbly ducking between bodies like a pick pocket working the Christmas crowds - a WD-40 footballer who can get the gears moving, coxing and inviting his team mates into positions where they can cause real damage. Lennon has benefited from having Adebayor to link with and Bale is getting better at positioning himself where he can both cause damage and elude the tight marking of a well drilled right back / right winger partnership.

The greatest improvement Tottenham have made this season has been with the introduction of Adebayor. While many will claim that he lacks the clinical finishing to be a prolific striker he has netted nine times in the Premier League and created seven more and it is in the role of the aforementioned link man that he has been a crucial element in Tottenham’s rise. Anyone who can remember the often abject performances of Crouch and Pavlyuchenko last season will testify that the way Adebayor works the channels, pushed the ball into space and brings the midfield into the attack is a huge improvement on what was happening last season – Pavlyuchenko often displaying the first touch of a man with a sever degenerative nerve disease and Crouch’s complete inability to pass to on rushing team mates. 

With Adebayor filling the role of the lone striker, Van der Vaart has been allowed to flourish in the free role between midfield and attack, pulling the strings and attempting reverse passes and through balls to get his quicker team mates behind the defensive line. It is also to be noted that Defoe, recognising his poor form spent the summer doing conditioning training with a former Arsenal trainer in the south of France in an attempt to model himself into someone who can hold up the ball despite his small stature. In this he has been successful and the goals have come though his chances have been limited. 

All Tottenham’s attacking prowess would be for nought if it wasn’t for the solid foundations that Redknapp as laid. Brad Friedel has filled the defence with a confidence that the more talented but erratic Gomes never could. King has played for 921 minutes in the league this season, more than twice the match time he managed in the 2010/11 season. Kaboul is growing into the player his physical attributes have always suggested he could be and with Walker returning from successful loan spells at QPR and Aston Villa there is pace on the right to compliment Assou-Ekotto’s verve on the left. With Dawson and Gallas pushing for inclusion there is a depth at the back that has helped Tottenham grind out results, such as the 1-0 victory over West Brom, which was previously a point of weakness. 

Injury is always the cloak of doom that can fall on a player or team at any moment, enveloping them in a season ending dread. Significant injuries to Adebayor or Bale would severely impact on the team aesthetic and an extensive injury list would hamper any squads’ performance in the league. As such there is little use in supposing the worst for Tottenham, currently they have the means.

Still, title contenders are more than the sum of their respective parts. This is the reason that Chelsea have struggled to maintain a consistency in the league that has been Manchester United’s calling card for the last two decades. For all the money, for all the talent you possess, winning is a hard won habit. This mental strength will be the real barometer of success. Should either Manchester City or Tottenham triumph this season then they will have to display the cool, clinical focus that Sir Alex Ferguson seems to imbue his teams with. City will bare the greater weight of expectancy; there is a sense that this is their year, the year when the endless draws that cost Mark Hughes his job are forgotten, the year the reserved football gave way to exuberance and goals in abundance. But if it is their year, then it is theirs to loose too. This is now the time for the real contenders to show their metal. Nobody can know how Tottenham will react in the coming months, when the papers talk and mind games fill silences with whispers. It will be necessary for Harry Redknapp to use his much fabled man management skills if the doubt creeps in, or complacency takes root.

 

Redknapp’s court case and a tax evasion charge creates an unusual dimension to this question, like two moons confusing the tides making it difficult to confidently predict where Tottenham will be or who even will be at the helm come the end of the season. There is an injunction against reporting about the case so it is anybody’s guess as to the real likelihood of Redknapp facing time behind bars. What can be discussed is the effect the time of the case will have on the team. There are plenty that think this distraction could derail Tottenham’s season, siphoning focus from the league into the labyrinths of tax law Redknapp will be attempting to escape. However there is another school of thought that reasons that the court case could prove to be a boon for the team, however unconventional. Should Tottenham beat City at the Etihad Redknapp will be in court the very next morning. What better way to defuse the hyperbolic headlines than an even better story to distract journalists? If the worst happens and Redknapp goes down it will be intriguing to see how the team react. It certainly adds spice to an already exciting season.

Should Tottenham perform with the same efficiency in the second half of the season that they displayed in the first, they will be right up there at the time of reckoning. We will certainly know more once the dust settles on Sunday’s action. With Manchester City hosting Tottenham and Arsenal entertaining Manchester United this could be a defining day in the title race. Manchester City will be looking to assert their dominance in the same fashion they did in Augusts 5-1 demolition. This time, however, it is City who’s numbers are depleted, the absence of Kompany and Yaya Toure significantly weakening the spine of the team while Tottenham’s playing staff are carried on a surge of good results.

The league will not be won this weekend, but for Tottenham the battle is as much in their hearts and minds now. Neither they nor City have gone the full course. Recent years have seen Liverpool and Arsenal mount challenges only to taper away at the close. One thing is for sure though, for Tottenham these are new and exciting times, echoes to former glories no longer ring quite as hollow and the league can be viewed with excitement and hope.  

~Ed

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