No Place For Old Trafford Men

One obvious feature of international football is the way in which fans of different clubs are brought together, often cheering for the very players they've wanted to fail throughout the domestic season. And, as the players often discover, the fans are usually more interested in the team's success than the feelings of the players. As Wayne Rooney discovered on Friday night:

Wayne's statement got us thinking. In an ideal world, how would he have his fans behave? What does he expect? And, more to the point, what's it really like to be a fan of his full-time? The only way to find out was to ask long-suffering Manchester United fan and bloke down pub, Mac, for an insider's view:

"Rooney? - "Im saving my goals for the World Cup"? - not bothered he's not scoring at the moment...hold on, he got injured in a friendly playing for En-ger-land, played 60 mins in a meaningless friendly after pulling up days earlier - what about the 100k a week United are paying him and their run in? How about not saving your goals for the World Cup but being fit to play against Blackburn where it ended 0-0 - one goal would have won the title, made history - ditto Champions League.

"Then he says " I will win it for Kia!" Now, Kia is his bizarrely named offspring, how will Kia know he's won it? He can't read about it - and lets face it, being Rooney's kid he'll be 22 before he starts reading anyway...how about winning the league for the 48000 season ticket holders at United who have seen their ticket prices go up 4 consecutive years?

Why can't they be more like Carrick? Carrick - who didn't make the top 5 Opta stats in any category this season (passing, tackling, shots on target, interceptions) and was dire all season - is not in the mood to go to the World Cup, said a friend as reported in the tabloids.

"His wife has given birth to a son 3 weeks ago and he has hardly been at home - he just wants to be at home with her and the bairn, I don't think hes bothered about the World Cup" said a friend - thats the same Carrick couldn't be bothered to make a tackle against Bayern Munich to stop them scoring, who is the weakest tackler in the top four teams midfields, apparently - which United fans know all about, he pulls out of every tackle, can't be bothered, see? - being tackled by him must be like being repeatedly struck by midget suffering from brittle bone disease wielding a cotton bud - but fair play to him , even though hes probably still got his Christmas tree up, wont go to Tesco or Sainburys until they get motorised sit on trolleys and has a garage full of boxes from Ikea waiting to be unpacked, give him his due:

He's not bothered full stop for club or country - which is refreshingly honest, when you think about it."

The Soundtrack

Portsmouth is famed for its narrow-minded, island mentality. And their club's resident mentality is Pompey John, a twat who annoys football fans week in, week out, by ringing his bell for the whole fucking game.

Extend that narrow-minded island mentality on a nationwide scale, and you get six twats. With instruments. And pies. For the whole fucking game.

If the 1986 World Cup is only remembered for one thing, it is unquestionably the Mexican Wave. In every single dull moment of every single game, the director would cut to a shot of an entire stadium seemingly undulating as tens of thousands of fans of all nationalities took turns to stand up and throw their arms in the air.

All nationalities - except one. Even more impressive than seeing the wave itself was seeing all its joyful carefree momentum stop dead upon reaching one insurmountable barrier: The England section.

England fans go to watch the game, not to play some bloody silly parlour game. I mean, whatever next? Pass the parcel?

And so it was, as it had always been, and continued to be, until a problem emerged. England fans wanted to concentrate on the football. Trouble was, the football wasn't actually very entertaining to watch. Moreover (and whisper this), the old Wembley, for all its legendary status, was about as entertaining as a swimming pool with no water. Fun to watch other people smashing their heads open in, but better to watch from the comfort of your own living room.

Then along came The England Band, and rather in the same way that when you're sat round a fire and someone produces a guitar, at first everyone thought, "actually, this is all right. Almost good, in fact. I'm certainly not annoyed or angry about this, no way."

But we all know what happens. An hour later, he's still there with his guitar, trudging through substandard cover versions of C*ldpl*y songs while each and every other person present is wondering how much anyone else would mind if you decided to liven up the fire with either a] his guitar, or b] him (or c] C*ldpl*y)

And so it was with the England band - except the effect was even quicker, largely due to the fact that a] they only play two songs, and b] they play them really fucking badly. Of course, no-one can deny that the England band add atmosphere to the matches. It's just unfortunate that that atmosphere is one of a Music Therapy demonstration at a Special Needs Open Day.

Let's face it, we've no reason to expect to be good at football. But music? Let's see...The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Bowie, Led Zep, The Sex Pistols, New Order, The Stone Roses, Blur, Orbital, Roni Size, Dizzee Rascal...we're GOOD at music! Are we really saying that if you distill all of that lot and more, we get 3 twats playing The Great Escape (World War II song, we won that! Waheyyy!!!) and the theme from The Italian Job (60s film - we won it in the 60s! Waheeeeeyyyy!!!!!!)? Tunelessly? For ninety sodding minutes?

But there's more. The hate and confusion. During any normal ITV game, it's perfectly natural to greet any utterance from Drury, Tyldsley, Townsend, et al with a kneejerk "just shut the fuck up!" But with England games, before you even reach the "the", your brain tells you, "if they shut up, you'll have to listen to the band." And there it is. The kick in the balls, or the poker up the arse.

Either would be perfectly acceptable alternatives.

Stevie Effin' G

"I don't think there's anything worse than a player diving when no one's been anywhere near him. It does ruin the game...If I saw a team-mate doing it, I would definitely have a word." - Steven Gerrard

Steven Gerrard is a Phil Collins fan. I'm sure there are many who would agree, it wouldn't be entirely unjustified to end this post right there. But, in the interests of fairness...

Most of us know someone who, for whatever reason, doesn't mind a bit of Uncle Phil. When confronted, they usually simply shrug, look a bit sheepish, and mumble something along the lines of, "well, I like some of his songs, you know...and that drum fill that goes duh-duh, duh-duh, duh-duh, duh-duh, duh, duh..." It's a mistake, yes. A crime against music, perhaps. But there are worse things in this world, eh?

Worse things - like the unrepentant Phil Collins fan. The sort of Phil Collins fan who has the balls to ask a DJ (a DJ - ie someone who is paid for his musical knowledge) to stick on a bit of Sussudio. Worse still, are those Phil Collins fans who, having had their requests denied, enlist the help of two of their mates to batter the crap out of anyone who refuses to play "You Can't Hurry Love."

For legal reasons, we must point out that Stevie Effin' G is NOT one of those fans. A jury of 12 Liverpudlians in a Liverpool courtroom found the Liverpool captain and his multi-million pound legal team completely innocent of any such behaviour. The only reason he threw the first punch was because he was worried the DJ was about to put on some Peter Gabriel-era Genesis.

There is also no truth in the rumour that the suit Stevie wore for the court case was the same one he wore when found guilty of drunk-driving.

Or any truth whatsoever in the rumours that the England Captain recently had that suit dry cleaned and went to court to take out an injunction against a 16 year old girl who ended up pregnant with his baby.

Steven Gerrard MBE is the England Captain. A modern day Bobby Moore, if you will.

1966 And All That….

"The way the English harp on about 1966, you’d think they’d won nothing since…oh.”

Things were, of course, much different then. For nigh on two decades, British teams didn’t even bother with Johnny Foreigner’s Silly Little World Cup Kickabout Bless ‘Em™. When England won it, at only their 5^th attempt, few England fans would have believed that their great nation, who gave the world the modern game, would take at least 54 years to produce another team capable of even reaching a major final – let alone winning anything.

The players themselves celebrated by briefly displaying the trophy from the balcony of their hotel. Not an open-top bus in sight. In the years that followed, all were rewarded with honours from the Queen, including three knighthoods.

Why bring this up now? In a blog about all the worst things about English football, why bring up 1966? Why join the rest of the baying “2 World Wars, One World Cup” mob? Why join the 1966-obsessed media morons, “Wrighty” et al, in harking back to our one, solitary moment of glory?

Well, here’s why:

Frank Lampard, MBE

Ashley Cole, OBE

Sir John Terry

How does that sound to you? How does that make you feel? Because if they win it, that’ll be just the tip of the iceberg. The 1966 team have been deified, honoured and idolised for over half a century now, and they won it when no-one knew what a big deal it was. Now we know.

Think about that for a moment. Now, we know.

Overnight, airports will be renamed after the England midfield. New housing estates will be made up of Crouch Closes and Defoe Drives, built around a central square made up of tiny coloured cobbles, meticulously arranged to produce an overhead view of the 2010 squad enjoying a celebratory roasting session. TV schedules will bulge with the life stories of the heroes of 2010, whose wives, girlfriends, children and milkmen will be booked to appear on any and every celebrity cookery, reality, chat or quiz show going, only interrupted by ad breaks in which the same players urge you to shit, shave or shower with the products they’ve been paid huge fees by huge corporations to endorse. Forever. And yes, for once Nike have got it right – 21 years from now, every single shop, pub, cinema or petrol station you visit will be staffed by people called “Wayne”. And all anyone in those shops, pubs, cinemas or petrol stations will be going on about is 2010.

And 1966.

Oh, and those two World Wars.