Kopping the Love

Steven Gerrard is staying at Liverpool. Again.


This creature is called the Red-Knobbed Starfish. Say No More

There’s two ways of looking at this. One: every so often he needs a bit of a wage hike or a bit of kiss-ass so the rumours do the rounds and Koppites everywhere gather in clusters around flaming bins lobbing lucky charms into the flames in the hope that the sainted lad won’t take his falling starfish routines to another home.

Two: Gerrard really is physically unable to sever his ties to Liverpool and will always remain there so long as he’s wanted.

And maybe there’s a third. I’m not sure the England captaincy sat comfortably on his slender scally shoulders in the summer. All right he was one of England’s better players but that’s a bit like saying that on a plate of well dodgy seafood he was the open mussel that left you feeling the least sick.

And there’s been whispers coming out in cyberspace – we’ve all heard ‘em – about liaisons with less than appropriate partners and the consequences of such entanglements. None of that has been proved of course so I’ll go no further.

However, whilst Gerrard’s loyalty is admirable on one level, I look at him as a player who could really do with a couple of seasons mixing it with technically gifted and nimble footballers. The Liverpool side has been built around him for years and he’s struggled to adapt with the national team when that isn’t the case.

Frankly Unfat Frank has struggled too out of his Chelsea Armchair, and it’s fair to say that Capello’s insistence on finding a place for both of them in the England line-up by employing neither of them in a position they enjoy has been one of his more perverse decisions.

But I think when push comes to shove, Gerrard has bottled it. The Kop make him too comfy. Let’s face it the bloke turned a leaden eleven into Cup Winners twice over in 2005-6, so the bronze Stevie G statue is virtually in the mould already just waiting for his retirement.

Last season he did nowt, and still not a word of complaint from the faithful. I think he needs to be braver. I’d love to see him winning over a new set of fans at the Bernabeu. Above all it would make him a far better player.

Of course the news that he’s staying has given a Viagra-fuelled swell to Merseyside optimism. That and the arrival of the Artful Dodger on a free transfer. That’s 90 grand a week free. An injury-free Joe Cole might justify that but you could say the same about a fit and flying Fernando were it not that his muscles tweak with the regularity of a Murali doosra.


'Si, I score a goal! Now can you carry me to side of pitch. I hurt my leg.'

Personally I think cashing in on the frail flower that is Torres and giving Hodgson a bundle of cash to purchase three hardy perennials in his place might give ‘Pool more chance. Nando’s twanging sinews might have been a bit less stretched had Benitez had another striker with a bit more than going for him that Honest Dirk, Forgawd’ssake Ngog and the petulant gossip that is Babel. Jovanovic should help.

And here’s where I’d share a little of the optimism – Liverpool have employed a realist to manage the team. Hodgson won’t be raking through dossiers or playing one up front at Bloomfield Road or taking himself to the naughty step till someone comes over to find out what’s up.

There’s other good signs. Liverpool have hilariously acquired five million quid for the sale of Emiliano Insua. Which is like finally kicking some layabout lodger off the sofabed in the front room and finding a cache of gold bullion under the pillows.
Philipp Degen has been told he can leave. I think he’s been told that by about 45,000Scousers every time he’s taken to the field so it’s nice to think that the management are catching on.

The only other imponderable is Mascherano who seems to conduct a lot of his negotiations via any rag you care to mention. I mean he’s been linked to so many places there’s positively a chain gang of Champions League clubs tugging at his cloggery ankles.

If only Waldorf and Stadler can find that elusive Arab cashpoint in the Emirates somewhere then all may well be rosy.

The reason 5th is still looking the most likely outcome form the upcoming season is that Spurs should maintain their position and Man City continue to cough up ridiculous sums of wonga for just about anyone who’s available.

Whether Mancini’s able to shape the mercenaries into a bunch of Wild Geese capable of stringing together a decent set of results is open to question. Certainly this Mourinho Lite of a manager is top of the list of likely casualties during next season.


Arrgh. Must've typed in Roberto Mankini.

I imagine the Citeh board are already looking at the fixture list to see when’s the best time to fly in the next candidate: from November 13th they’ve got a nice little run of potentially cushy matches so that’s where my money’d be.

But any road, Gerrard won’t skipping into the sky blue stable. He’ll be leading from the front in Mersey red, same as he ever was.

I suppose in this day and age it’s good to see a one-club footballer sticking to those that have always supported him. I just wonder whether, cos of emotional ties or professional fear, he’s ever had the nuts to see what it might be like away from the eternal adoration that comes from the Kop.

GREAT WORLD CUP? PAUL THE OTHER ONE

From Guest West London Blogger The Shepherds Mush

They were supposed to have taken the World Cup by storm, but in the final reckoning, Messi, Ronaldo and Rooney were upstaged by an octopus called Paul.

Another spineless World Cup performance

While much of the football in South Africa was a load of old tentacles, Small Paul (that’s his DJ name) rose from nowhere to topple the vuvuzela as the undisputed star of the tournament.

With eight out of eight predictions correct (one for each leg) he bowed out of the World Cup undefeated – a record shared only by the mighty New Zealand – and what’s more, Paul’s exploits are said to have attracted the attentions of more than a few OOHs (that’s Octopi’s Other Halves to you and I).

My mate foolishly backed against him for the final and had a few squid on the Dutch cloggers, who single-handedly - and double-footedly – ensured the World Cup final was more big game-hunt than big game. Agent Orange? There wasn’t a gent amongst them.

Anyway, back to the octopus. The Weymouth exile living in Germany, has officially retired from his role of pulling mussels from flag-covered boxes, and is going back to the simple life of catching a few waves and hanging out with plankton – which was pretty much the story of Stephen Warnock’s World Cup.

Which brings us nicely to England – from golden generation to golden shower in the space of four dismal games.

Like Steve Harmison’s opening delivery in the 2006/07 Ashes, the moment Rob Green decided to throw the ball into the net against the U-S-A you knew (to borrow a phrase from Dad’s Army) we were all doomed.

If Green was Private Frazer, then Capello was Captain Mainwaring, employing his tried-and-tested carrot-stick approach (minus the carrot) but ultimately coming across as a bumbling buffoon.

Of course, the Italian was keen to retain his position as Top Don in order to trouser another few million – sorry, to put right his mistakes – although his plans have been thrown into turmoil by the devastating news that Emile Heskey has retired from international football (some thought he’d retired before the tournament started).

As for the Boy Wonder, he went missing for longer than Raoul Moat – and sadly there was no Gazza arriving on his white charger with chicken and lager to bail him out.

Sir Alex Ferguson put Rooney’s no-show down to tiredness. That’s the same Fergie who flogged Rooney through a 44-game season before tossing his crumpled carcass back to Capello.

Then there was Frank Lampard’s ‘goal’ against Germany, where the ball couldn’t have been further behind the line had he sent it via courier marked ‘back of the net’.

Thankfully, in times of trouble you can always rely on the French to put a smile on your face. Evra and the boys were in such a strop that when they threw the toys out of the pram, pillows, sheets and baby followed swiftly after.

Italy joined France on the first plane home and for a while it looked as if Spain might join them as they crashed to a shock opening defeat at the hands of the Swiss.

The over-emotional Iker Casillas was met by his TV presenter girlfriend immediately afterwards and rather than console him, she simply said, live on air: “How did you manage to muck that up?” No wonder he always seems to be crying.

The soundtrack to the World Cup was, of course, those dastardly vuvuzelas.

Rumour has it Happy Mondays legend Bez was trying to watch the opening game at his local, when his mate asked if he was OK.

“Buzzin’ man!” came the reply.

“Top,” said his mate.

“No,” screamed Bez: “Stop that fookin buzzin’, man!”


"I can't even say vuzoo-fookin-vela"

The English fans did their best to make their feelings known in the match with Algeria, but the chant of “You can stick your vuvuzelas up your arse!” was sadly drowned out by…well, take a wild guess.

The first game between South Africa and Mexico finished 1-1 – just like the first game at every World Cup. When the side from Central America had a goal ruled out, coach Javier Aguirre turned into Kevin the Teenager on the touchline in what was officially the tournament’s first Mexican rave.

Aside from the vuvuzela and the octopus, the other big talking point was of course the ‘roundest ever’ Jabberwocky ball, which was brought in to create more goals, yet resulted in the lowest-scoring tournament of the 32-team era. Because no-one could control the bloody thing.

No-one, that is, except the Germans, who had been playing with it for a year because the Bundesliga had the right sponsors.

Incidentally, how come every time the Germans were scoring goals for fun they were described as ‘ruthless’, ‘efficient’ and ‘typical’ - yet when Spain ground out 1-0 win after 1-0 win (all right, they can pass a bit) it was ‘fantastic’, ‘mesmerising’ and ‘unbelievable’?

Returning to the Jabberwotsit and England’s biggest mistake was clearly not picking Darren Bent – the only player we had who knows how to get the best out of a beach ball.

"I'm like well good with floaty balls."

And so as we prepare ourselves for the new Premier League season, where chants of ‘You let your country down’ will ring around stadiums across the land and Rooney effigies will swing from lampposts until he redeems himself by single-handedly getting us to Euro 2012, here’s a look at some of the lighter moments of the World Cup.

Best Quote:
“I like women, I like women, I like women. I am going out with Veronica, she’s 31, she’s blonde, she’s very pretty!” Diego Maradona to a journalist inquiring about the man love going on between him and his Argentina team.

Next best quote:
“Goals are like ketchup. Sometimes they don’t come out but when they come, many come at once.” Cristiano Ronaldo had obviously been on the sauce.

Strangest story:
Replica World Cup made from cocaine seized in Colombia (police pursuing several lines of inquiry).

Best caption:
On the BBC: ‘Iniesta in space’ – next stop Mars.

Scariest hardman:
No, not Van Bommel or even Karate Kid De Jong, but Gabriel Heinze after his vicious assault on the TV camera.

Best observation:
Mexico coach Javier Aguirre: “It was very important to beat France – they are after all the vice world champions” (no wonder their concentration levels weren’t up to much).

Best pronunciation:
Jonathan Pearce making Mertesacker sound how Lawro would say motorcycle.

And finally….toughest job:
The North Korean TV editor who had to make the 7-0 reverse against Portugal look like a competitive match.

Bad Weather and Terrible Trousers

First of all, here's wishing Howard Webb a nice break somewhere before the onset of the Premier League 2010-11. Amsterdam's a great place to chill out. Mind the coffee shop cookies though, Howie, too many of them and you can get a right bad persecution complex.

Which suggest that maybe the Orange boys had some laced biccies at half-time in Jo'burg. It's amazing how they're bleating on about how Webb cost them the game and yet he saved them from annihilation by keeping the midfield assault troops on the pitch. Just exactly how much of a twat do you need to be before you seriously start to blame Webb for the defeat?



Answer: This much of a twat.

But that's done with now. As is the British Grand Prix. Motor racing is just a repository of testosterone for men who think a sleek speed machine is akin to a priddy lady. From the pit-lane totty to the post-race prattle I find myself wanting to stick every sodding one of them into a Nissan Micra and push em down Sutton Bank.

Apart from Mark Webber, who is refusing to play the Barrichello with the toy-tossing pramster Vettel. I always picture Rubens toddling into the Ferrari garage for his first day and Schumacher striding over, sticking out his lantern jaw another couple of feet and muttering 'Gutten tag mofo. Velcome to Ferrari. You is my bitch now. I own your Goddam ass.' (Although somehow I can't see Ving Rhames playing Schumi).

Webber's 'Not bad for a number 2 driver' is definitely my quote of the sporting year. I hope he's wins the Championship. Yes very unpatriotic of me not to back the Brits. Erm, that'll be the pocket-lining, popstar-banging, tax-dodging Brits. Dunno what I've got against them.


Vettel: 'That's right you traitorous Aussie shit, your new car vill be made out of sand!'

But today sports fans turn their attention to that four day festival of bad weather and terrible trousers that is the Open Golf Championship.

I enjoy this sport despite myself. First of all the sport itself is just downright weird. Legend has it that it was originated by Scottish shepherds who couldn't farm the land that lay between their pasture and the sea. So they picked up their crooks and started tonking the odd ram's testicle up and down the dunes.

This may explain the origins of the name 'golf' - it may be an acronym for 'grizzled old lamb-fuckers'.

Advocates of the game will tell you lots of stuff about how superior it is to other sports. I heard Ian Carter on 5Live saying that it allows the spectator to get closer to the pros than in any other event. Garbage. Tour de France?

There's also this etiquette that demands utter decency from all the protagonists. Which is fair enough, except I know for a fact that I've tapped a ball or six round a course with some cheating little shysters in my time, by Christ.

Plus there are plenty of greats of the game who have spent their latter days pouring their time and effort into converting more perfectly decent stretches of the countryside into manicured playgrounds for appallingly moneyed tosspots to thwack about in. And though Jack Nicklaus will forever be hailed in golfing circles he apparently couldn't get to the Old Course this week cos there wasn't enough moolah being dangled beside his Golden Bear-faced cheeks.

And as we all know, golf clubs are great bastions of Mail-reading middle-class muppets who think a Pringle logo is the height of sartorial elegance. The success of Peter Alliss is simple: there's a Peter Alliss on the nineteenth hole of every course in this country, gin in hand, muttering lightly about this n that and getting grimmer and more ungenerous by the putt.

I'd forcibly retire the bloke meself, but he is as unfireable as a standard issue British Army revolver.

And yet despite all this I do enjoy your Open Golf. St. Andrews always throws up that magnificent Seve celebration on the 17th all them years ago - a kind of hugely indulgent hand shandy of a gesture.

And last year, when kindly old Tortoise Tom almost waddled off with the prize, was wonderful drama. Though Cink winning it was as anticlimactic as an inflatable woman with a puncture. I pray - ironically - that some God-fearing Yank doesn't lift the jug this year. When I hear a sportsman thanking God for his achievements, there's a bit of me that hears him saying 'Yep, that's right, He chose me and not you... LOSER!'

Plus I hope Tiger has a wretched tournament cos I for one don't buy this whole 'oo, I need a new putter claptrap'. I can't quite remember the name of his new blade but I think it's called summat like the Nike CashCow. Woods's main job this week will be to stay out of the bits of rough and those perilous man-traps that line the fairways.

And I hope the pre-tournament chutzpah regarding the inevitability of a British winner doesn't founder on the last nine holes as one by one the young guns wilt like a pack of witless... invertebrate... erm... for want of a better word... FOOTBALLERS.

So here goes - as my predictions are going relatively well at the mo.



I'm opting for one of these two camp young men, even if they do look like they've entered themselves for the Weetabix Women's Open in these outfits.

Poulter, in fact. If he can keep his gob shut. Although I fear the great galumpher that is Mickelson.