Robbo 10: W**kin Frankel - Click On My Face To Listen!

Monday, 21 April 2014

Let It Be Liverpool

It seems, then, that there are greater forces at work in this Premier League season than the mere to-ings and fro-ings of your average football match.


The stars have aligned. The 25th anniversary of Hillsborough, so eloquently and humbly marked on Tuesday of last week, has coincided with a Liverpool team on a relentless run of victories. Brendan Rodgers, who becomes less a manager and more a statesman with every passing week, has urged his players to embrace the sentiment and grief and use it to embolden them further.


I like this. Too often football is pilloried as being a marginal pursuit, one that exists in a realm outside the more productive worlds of work and community. Certainly it is a rich man's plaything these days, but the core of any football club is and always will be its fans, and when those fans have suffered such an egregious loss it seems only fair that in some small way the club finds a way to reward the fans with, for a change, a wonderful celebration.


A football club is - or at least still can be - its community. It has to be Liverpool's year, doesn't it? Set aside Hillsborough and you've got Chelsea's demise to a goal scored by Liverpool loanee Borini (and another in vertical red and white stripes, Stoke's Oussama Assaidi, grabbing a winner against the Blue Meanies in December) and you can see a pattern emerging.


Indeed, Sunderland's extraordinary revival after Poyet acknowledged that a miracle was required, could be almost as astonishing. As ever Chelsea's defeat was done to forces outside of Mourinho's control. This time he went to the scoundrel manager's first excuse. It was The Ref Wot Won It.


Really? Mike Dean got just about every decision right as far as I could tell... the main ones I'd argue with was Matic's nudge on a defender before Terry tucked the ball home - there didn't seem much in that but the linesman flagged for it anyway; and Ramires should have walked. (Jose didn't mention that... strange.)


The other decisions were entirely understandable and Chelsea only have themselves to blame for not having a decent fucking goalscorer when the means to acquire one are utterly limitless.


But for all this critical mass of fact and coincidence, emboldened by the sort of freakish deflections that saw Sterling's second dolly cruelly over Ruddy's head at Carrow Road yesterday, there is still a cloud on Liverpool's horizon. And it is Mourinho.


I seriously don't want the tediously charming old bastard to win the Premier League, even though my money's on them. For a while this season he seemed to have rewritten himself as a charismatic and philosophical been-there, done-that kind of chap. But no. He's still a snide and churlish little bleeder underneath it all.


But he's smart too, and even devoid of strikers worth the name and an overreliance on Brazilian midfielders who want to walk the ball into the net, there would be nothing more satisfying to old Maureen than turning over the Anfield Apple-Cart.


Hopefully, Chelsea will be too fatigued by European endeavours to put up much of a fight at the weekend. But Rodgers' resources are looking thin, despite valuable contributions by Allen and Lucas. One more rousing first 30 minutes and you feel that will do it for the Scousers.


As a neutral I'm not sure I've ever been quite so behind another club as they enter the last three games of the season. As a fan of a relentlessly unrewarded club, I have grown tired of hearing the likes of Liverpool, Arsenal and Spurs fans suggesting that the winning of trophies is somehow an entitlement.


The griping Chelsea fans who bemoan the lack of success but can't acknowledge Mourinho's contribution to that failure. Perhaps most piteous of all are the wittering United supporters who can't quite believe that the new man hasn't delivered Fergie-style superiority on a plate for them, with a squad of squabbling chunterers and ditherers for Moyes to select from.


It's understandable, I suppose. Moyes have proved disastrously staid and indecisive about style and personnel. If, for example, Januzaj, was at Anfield, Rodgers would have him starting most games. But, really.. one bad season... GET OVER YOURSELVES...


So here I am, another anonymous Boro season almost concluded, left to cross fingers and pull on the lucky pants in support of another team in red. And it's not just sentimental. They have played the best footie. They are chockfull of exciting young Englishmen who have been encouraged by an excellent manager to be expressive, versatile and fearless.


And more than that, intelligent. Yes, it is possible to get talented young lads of local origin to imagine more than one way of playing and what's more to carry those plans out. Remarkable. Soon they'll be learning how to speak funny foreign languages and then where will we be? In some Faragean nightmare, that's where.


And then of course there's Steven Gerrard. Occasionally maligned, or played out of position; often tempted by the lure of more certain success at the Big Money Clubs (and we shouldn't forget that Liverpool are hardly short of a few bob); but ultimately, a one-club man who might even yet be rewarded with that most elusive of titles, the First Division Champions - at least that's what it was called the last time they won it.


I can't wish 'em more luck. I like a happy ending.

Wednesday, 9 April 2014

Jowsy Jose

Jose Mourinho has received hundreds of plaudits over the years. He's the man whose Inter stifled Barca, whose Porto won the biggest prize in club football from nowhere; a man whose tactical acumen is beyond compare; a man who takes all the flak and charisma for himself, allowing his teams to be really dull and really effective.


This season he has been his usual charming self. On occasions one is almost fooled into believing that he is being alarmingly frank. But this is the man who Barca fans still call The Translator - and you need to have just such skills available for every sentence that leaves his pursed little Thunderbird lips.


Jose: We have no strikers.
Translation: It's not my fault we can't score goals.
Truth: It is. He could've kept Lukaku and/or bought someone.


Jose: Et'oo is a pensioner.
Translation: He's not the young and ruthless player he once was, but that's not my fault.
Truth: It is; you brought the bloke in.


Jose: The team is too young to be successful just yet.
Translation: it's not my fault if they don't win anything, but if we do, well Jeez, we'll just have to accept that I'm a genius.
Truth: Chelsea still have oodles of money and talent, both of which should be sufficient to win something every year, regardless of who's in charge. (cf Di Matteo, Avram Grant, Rafa Benitez)


Jose: Wenger is a specialist in failure.
Translation: Wenger is a specialist in failure.
Truth: Wenger is a specialist in failure.


Whatever Jose says, its meaning always comes back down a mixture of extraordinary self-regard and a desire to spare his players the flak. To be fair Ferguson was exactly the same (only with all the suavity of house-brick).


And while no one can deny that he's good value as a gobshite, it helps to detach his eminent charm from the teams he puts out on the pitch. His most successful campaigns are invariably typified by a pragmatic hard-nosed approach to winning football games and last night's triumph against PSG was a case in point.


While it's lovely to have these twinkle-toed midfielders knocking it this way n that, PSG (which sounds to me like something bad you get in Chinese food) weren't really struggling to hold them out. Indeed for the last 25 minutes they looked far more likely to score and, with a bit more composure, would have done.


I just hope Cavanni displays the same finishing prowess against England in the summer. You'd think with a name like Edison he'd be a little more inventive.


Jose, desperate for that winning goal, ditched any pretence at elegance and threw on the Three Amigos - Scuffy, Puffy and Huffy - to somehow wrestle a goal from its least likely source. We were then treated to a display of footballing effluence from the Happy Special One as he resorted to Allardycean Prehistory for a way to unlock the French defence.


And as so often with a Big Sam or a Pulis, the plan only went and worked. Football from another century it surely was, but then sometimes we can learn from the past. I'm not sure there's a chalkboard at Stamford Bridge on which the gaffer puts three centre-forwards in the box and says "Roll it back to JT and let him hump it so hard it could be a team-mates's missus."


I've seen more creative ploys in a pre-pub Sunday league fixture. But given its success, why criticise? The manager left it to Lady Luck and the Blessed Woman came up trumps. In the myriad methods of Mourinho, the one constant seems to be Good Fortune.


Those people (myself included) who argue that Andy Carroll might just be a good option on the bench for Hodgson over the summer have been vindicated by this sophisticate's latest move. Your average central defender these days doesn't like it up 'em and Carroll isn't capable of much else.


Demba Ba claims in this morning's papers that Chelsea do have three good strikers. What apart from the one at Everton, you mean? I don't think so. Torres is like this ghost-like parody of his Liverpool self. Et'oo creaks along without truly threatening and Ba himself needs a team that plays to his strengths and this one ain't it. Route One isn't Option One, even if it worked last night.


None of which should detract from Chelsea's achievement, or Mourinho's wonderful touchline sprint. Another example of ego - 'ooh look at me!' - combined with cold-eyed ruthlessness - 'Nando get your backside into defensive mode, you goal-shy Jessie, we've got five minutes to hold out'.


In the meantime, the shakedown at the foot of the Premier League is suddenly becoming clear. Sunderland, woefully, have ground to a halt. Cardiff, 'lucky' red shirts looking ludicrous when watched by miserable blue-shirted fans, never were good enough, but Mackay would surely have had them a little higher.


The last spot seems like a straight fight between Fulham and Norwich. I was all for Norwich hanging on if only because they still had the same manager they started the season with. Until Sunday. A win at Craven Cottage would make them safe. If they fail, they're getting nowt from their last four games and Fulham will catch 'em.


In other words, it's utterly pointless changing the manager now. Every one of the bottom seven has changed their boss this season. Only in the case of Pulis has it made any bleeding difference. I tell you what even bleeding Merlin wouldn't last more than half a season in this country.


In other news the FA make a good decision. Hull City FC stays intact. It won't stop me pushing through with my plans at the Riverside, mind you. Middlesbrough Muggers, anyone?



















Monday, 31 March 2014

Still Citeh's to Lose

Brendan Rodgers. There he is, on the touchline, a massive bonce on a stocky little body, like an adult Charlie Brown, only with a lot more hair and self-confidence. Beaming away, he is. A man with a plan, and the plan is working. The polar opposite of David Moyes, in fact.


But things didn't start this brightly for Bren. Phone-ins were full of mournful Scouse voices this time last year, as Rodgers attempted to reorder the way his team plays. All right, there weren't exactly small planes flying over the ground (numpties!) but there was discontent. They didn't make the Europa League. Luis Suarez auditioned for the lead in the next Hannibal film and the rest of the team spent the season hitting post and bar more often that an inebriate Royal Mail employee.


So what's changed? Well, a hell of a lot. Not least the fact that not making the Europa League was a huge plus! (Man U and Everton take note! Maybe Sherwood has been drafted in at Spurs to avoid such inconveniences.).


More than anything, though, Rodgers has developed a squad which can alter its formation and still perform at a high level - and that includes several English players, too. That's right. Brainless automatons that have spent their lives simply adhering to a positional discipline and learning how to keep going at 90 mph for 90 minutes have been entrusted with taking on board more than one idea. Sturridge, Sterling, Henderson... all seem to be able to cope with the expectation of not having to play exactly the same way each week.


Roy Hodgson won't know what to make of this when the lot of them show up at training and asks him what the point of 4-4-2 is again.


Equally radical is the fact that Rodgers plays to his players strengths. Sterling roaming in the hole, or chopping and changing position with Sturridge and Suarez has worked beautifully, not least because the lad is more slippery than a greased eel in a bubble bath.


If you take his opposite number, the temporary boss of Tottenham Hotspur, Tim Sherwood, or indeed Moyes, you'll see how this apparently obvious policy is not always adhered to by Rodgers' contemporaries. Christian Eriksson on the left wing, anyone? Juan Mata wide right? Kyle Naughton anywhere near a first-team squad?


As someone who wasn't a rocket scientist once said 'It's not rocket science'. Plaudits have rained down on the eminently placid but lethal Suarez. That old crate of horseshit about nasty players needed to keep a healthy dose of malice or they'll lose something from their game doesn't seem to be true in his case, does it? I've never quite understood why utterly losing it once every five games is good for anyone.


But most of the superlatives are being reserved for the skipper Steven Gerrard with many old Anfielders unable to contain the warmth of their ejaculations. There's a certain late middle-age whimsy at work here. Gerrard represents that bit of we ageing souls that can do a good 40-odd keepy-uppies in the backyard and tell ourselves that we've still got it.


Gerrard is being touted as an English Pirlo now. Sitting in the pocket, a football-playing Joe Montana, a brandy in one hand and a fag in the other, absent-mindedly delivering forty-yard laser-guided missiles to the pacey front four to feed off.


Well he's not quite Pirlo, but he can still trot up to blast a free-kick in, roll in more than the odd penalty and you have to say he fits this new armchair as snugly as any man that ever sat anywhere. Liverpool are closer to the title now than ever they were under the stuffed-shirted dweeb that was Benitez - but then Rafa liked to use Gerrard as a right-winger whenever he could. The dolt.


But can this team hold it together til the season's end? And more than that, are they capable of turning over Citeh and/or Chelsea at home? Wonderfully, Rodgers managed to insist his team was taking the run-in one game at a time, adding that the next one was Manchester City when it is in fact West Ham away - all of which rather suggest the manager is getting ahead of himself a little.


As Palace proved on Saturday there are no gimmes in this league this season. (And there's four letters that make a fan happy - JT OG). Indeed you can't even take victory for granted if you've just taken the lead with 30 seconds to go, can you Baggies?


Spurs and Newcastle are losing the plot in rather similar ways to their gaffing gaffers. Sunderland's games in hand look meaningless, the way they're playing. Norwich and Hull are doing the two-forward three back relegation hustle and frankly it's like trying to predict how many roads a man must walk down before you can call him a man.


There are many reasons why it would be good for Liverpool to win the trophy this year: They're very entertaining; they don't quite have the financial clout of their two biggest rivals; and it's 25 years since Hillsborough - and a title would seem very appropriate this year.


Such sentiments would not deter Mourinho, whose trips to Anfield are still haunted by the Ghost Goal. Nor will Man City need to worry about working their way past the porous 'Pool back four. Then again Rodgers's S & S will be more than happy to be up against one of Lescott or Demichelis. I predict a 3-3. But I also can't help thinking Citeh will nick it in the end.