Slow Direction Home

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~ Matt

The Messiah?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~ Matt

A Troubled Bridge Over Waters

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~ Matt

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

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

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

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

* * *

Wednesday 14^th March, 2012, 14:20

Hattlewhich Primary School, Lincolnshire, England

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

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

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

Saturday 7^th April, 2012, 10:41

Nuneaton, Warwickshire, England

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

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

Wednesday 11^th April, 2012, 23:20

Kensington, West London, England

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

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

Sunday 15^th April, 2012, 17:18

Wembley Stadium, London, England

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

Monday May 14^th 2012, 04:03

Toxteth, Merseyside, England

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

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

Sunday 1^st July 2012, 11:31

Olympic Stadium, Kiev, Ukraine

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

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

Sunday 1^st July, 2012, 20:06

Olympic Stadium, Kiev, Ukraine

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

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

Monday 2^nd July, 13:28

Fifa HQ, Zurich, Switzerland

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

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

Monday 2^nd July, 14:51

Nuneaton, Warwickshire, England

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

The line goes dead.

~ Matt

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...

* * *

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...