United get in a right Mess(i)

Last night, somewhat dreamily, in my living room, I perchanced upon little hispanic men, smiling, floating around, dodging tackles, leaping, playing keep-ball, riding challenges.

But enough about my housemates and the sick depths they go to for pleasure, weren't Barcelona fantastic last night. Just unbelievably good.

On Wednesday morning, Sky Sports News (so shoot me, I'm unemployed) persisted on interviewing United fans in Rome, each belligerently and oafishly predicting a comfortable win for their team. Most of them, interestingly, were Irish. All of them, predictably, were wrong.

Such is my unfortunate fascination with hyperbole, I think that what I saw last night might be diluted by words. If anyone's reading them in the first place. The absolute ease with which Barca swatted Manchester United aside last night was just beautiful, and a fantastic slap in the face to the jingoistic press in this country, who predicted a comfortable win against weak opposition.

That a side so utterly trounced the comfortable winners of the 'Best League In The World'™ felt brilliant, and really put a lid on the self-congratulatory cack that spouts constantly from the marketing department at Sky Sports. Daily, the Premier League is referred to as the world's best , and hourly we are reminded of that fact by sycophantic TV presenters and booming commercials (in front of a backdrop of explosions, littered with gladiatorial copy).

To see Iniesta, Xavi, Messi, Toure, Eto'o take a gun to that empirical smugness, if only for a fleeting moment, felt like a brilliant time to be alive.

Real Madrid '58, Ajax '72, Liverpool '84, Bayern '75, Milan '89, Barcelona '94. These are all wonderful teams I've read about (far too much, really), and it feels good that I can say that I've watched a team that can hold a candle to them.

'Deadly' Ledley - THE TRUTH (in a way)

That smile could harm no-one


It wasn't 'assault'.

Of course not, 'twas merely a precautionary measure. Police saw a man in his late 20's, with a severe limp, on the dark streets of Laahnlan in the early hours of Sunday morning. He was eating a banana and gently moaning. Concerned for his wellbeing, they approached him as to his health. His knee was swollen, he complained, from slavishly carrying rounds of drinks to his thankless friends.

Officers later compared his left leg to the tail of a balloon poodle.

The man began to cry. Embarrassed for the clearly downtrodden male, officers were left with a conundrum; cruelly abandon this charming but luckless male to the sick whims of his obnoxious pals, or take him back to the guest room at the station.

4 of the 5 policeman agreed this was the only humane thing to do. The fifth, a slightly eccentric part-timer named Arsene, argued feverishly to leave the man sobbing on the pavement, but was outvoted.

As the officers helped the bedraggled man into their van, a Russian bouncer came running from a nearby Nightclub, shouting something about corrupt Norwegian referees. As he approached the van, his foot chanced upon the banana skin discarded by the distressed male minutes earlier. The bouncer fell heavily, such was his build, grazing his knee and jarring his wrist.

Livid, the bouncer shook his fist, and spoke of the recriminations that were to come when the authorities saw the video technology.

Thinking the man was still referring to UEFA, the officers helped the man up, and drove away from the scene to the station, tucking their new-found friend up for the night, unaware of the media-storm on the horizon.

A very happy May-day to you

May-day is usually a beacon of hope, an absolute point of pre-summer purity, a toxic hint at the vitality on offer throughout the summer months. Not to mention the prospect of 3 months of wearing shorts. This day last year I finished my dissertation, left Uni, after which I sat in a beer garden for many hours, where I turned redder (definitely a word) than a Soviet state.

Quite depressingly though, not this year. With nothing to do this May-day, May-day is just another day in May. Ho Hum.

On a brighter note, you may have heard of swine flu. It's sweeping the nation like a really really massive person with a really really massive broom. Maybe you saw Carlos Vela in Gatwick Airport last week and now you have it. Either way, a man called Mac Millings created a Global Pandemic World XI the other day, and sent it into Scott Murray as he was covering Barcelona's complete obliteration of Real Madrid. I cannot wait for them to rip Chelsea apart, but something sick says in the back of my mind that they will not. Urgh.

But here it is. Mac Millings, I envy and admire you.

Global Pandemic XI

Edwin van der SARS
Jamie Carrier
Boudeswine Zenden
Javier Facemascherano
Sneezin' Gerrard
Avian Duff
Santibody Cazorla
Quarantine Zidane
Tore Andre Flu
Gianfranco Ebola
Plague Bellamy



Incredible.

He's not the player of the year, he's a very naughty boy

My mother once thought Ryan Giggs was called Bryan. LOL.

More humorous however, was the decision to give Bryan the PFA player of the year award. Not one to jump on any bandwagon that suggests that footballers are stupid and shouldn't be allowed to vote on the X Factor, never mind 'serious' football polls, I will restraEEEEH....AAShhh"..."A"ARGGH222fFURooaaOHSODIT

Footballers are stupid, and shouldn't be allowed to vote on the X Factor, never mind 'serious' football polls.

How Xabi Alonso, whose passing and awareness is second to none, has not got near this award is baffling. He is the brain and the class behind Stevie Me's wild dog, rabidly foaming at the mouth, and the mind wonders how many more points Liverpool would've dropped had Mr Benitez had his wicked way and seen Xabi shipped off to Turin in the summer.

If anyone should win a ridiculously-awarded award, though it's Giggs, a refreshingly unridiculous player with an ego the size (or lack thereof) of a prematurely-born doormouse. He just should've won it in '94.

Oh Everton

Everton are lovely. My heart felt oh so very warm yesterday when Phil "i look like a nice dinosaur' Jagielka scored the winning FA Cup semi-final penalty, and not just because the late-afternoon sun shone at a slant through the window and onto the uppear reaches of my chest.

As a follower of a aesthetically brilliant team who live-somewhat-in-the-shadow-of-a-more-'successful'-jerkoff-team (I believe that's the official phrase), I've got a nice little affinity for Moyes' boys in blue (see also City, Man; Madrid, Atletico), believing Toffees to be in the same sort of boat as me. Well, less of a boat, more of a wheezy dinghy.

But did that dinghy sail last night.

Well not really, it was a horrific game of football, even worse than the non-event that was the game the previous day. But what made it worse was the inevitability of the final result, United were the pressure-loving behemoth with the technique to swat away their flies, like they did with Spurs......

But no, Everton were steely-gazed, with composure to burn, and made me a very happy boy indeed.

Taking the Sheen off

Well, it was ok wasn't it.

Football films are weird. I failed to apprehend this before watching the film, but I've always found that when a novel or film tries to depict football, it just feels a little... flat. The reality seems skewed, the game sequences rendered almost camp. Escape to Victory, of course is the exception that proves the rule, if only 'cos of Ossie.

Now, The Damned United was alright. Not great, like the book, but alright. Martin Sheen was great as Clough, as was Timothy Spall as his friend/male football lover Peter Taylor, but it lacked what made the book so great.

David Peace's Damned United was less of a football book, more of an introspective perusal into the mind of a genius, less warts 'n' all, more just warts. For Peace, football was the handy backdrop with which to hang the inspection of Clough's flawed psyche upon, whereas the film - perhaps trying to eschew the controversy of the book - is much more football-centric, telling the tale of post-1966 British football through the persona of Brian Clough, and not the other way round.

This is certainly a more populist approach, and would have made The Damned United more palatable to the neutral, and a great deal more enjoyable for Clough's poor family. However, it left me feeling like it had come up a little short, lacking the intensity the book had, and more importantly, that Clough had too.

The Damned United

It's out today, and I am ruddy excited.

The last 12 months or so I've been on a massive Brian Clough binge, which culminated in me sobbing in the foetal position following the final chapter of Duncan Hamilton's unbelievably good Provided You Don't Kiss Me. Of course I knew the ending, but that usually only serves to render the finale even more emotional (shamefully, the same happened with Marley and Me).

The superb ITV documentary (TV company who employs Andy Townsend and Robbie Earle in doing a good football program scandal) Clough was as touching and memorable as the title was brief. Had my gruff Welsh housemate not been watching with me, I'd doubtless have gone the same way as Provided You Don't Kiss Me.

David Peace's The Damned United, started me on this 'Clough-venture' (I'm sorry) early last summer. It's a terrifically entertaining book, dark and beautiful, one that I read as slowly as possible, such was my reticence to finish. It was the second book I'd read after years of skim-reading during my English degree, and was a wonderful antidote to my first. Ahem.

So imagine my delight then, to hear of a Damned United film.

Normally I zone-out when dullards go to see a beloved novel adapted for the cinema before complaining "it destroyed the essence of the book" or "they cut the scene of when Framley and Kip-Kip swam upriver into the Norgik forest", but I can see myself uttering the same thing walking out of the cinema following The Damned United. Well, not about Framley and Kip-Kip, there was a dearth of scandinavians in English football in Clough's heyday.

Like the Doctor who is convinced his patient's ailment is linked to spinal injuries, I will report back next week.