Congratulations to the Pie-Faced Wonder. Wayne Rooney crashed home another penalty to see him become England's record scorer. Glenn Hoddle purred that the keeper got nowhere near it. The keeper touched it on its way in actually, Glenn, but then, with your hotline to God, you do see things move in mysterious ways.
It is undeniable that Wazza is now the greatest striker England have ever had. Then again Margaret Thatcher was PM for 11 long years but that doesn't make her the best we've had unless you're a proto fascist fuckwit with all the empathy of a tapeworm - or George Osborne to give that worm its proper name.
Certainly those of us that witnessed the manchild's brawny arrival on the international would be unsurprised to have been told 11 years later that the lad had surpassed Sir Bobby in the legion of goalscoring greats. At that time Rooney looked capable of anything. Three Weetabix, a cow-pie and a liaison with a forty-something hooker... and it's not even nine o'clock.
Since then, like many an English prodigy he has slipped slowly back into the ranks of the Merely Very Good at a time when the Very Best are, when it comes to Messi and Ronaldo, Bloody Ridiculously Good Like You Might Be If You Were Having The Most Wonderful Dream Ever.
But even in the company of England's finest finishers, he's a little bit wanting.
Jimmy Greaves was the finisher supreme, they tell me. Fleet of foot, lithe and slippery, good on either side. And he did all this on pitches that halfway through October turned into the sort of pasture a herd of cattle might turn its nose up at. Those eyes that were once cold and ruthless lost their lustre in the perennial post-playing battle with the booze. He had a massive stroke recently but somehow football and its fans have mustered the £30,000 necessary to pay for his physiotherapy, possibly by asking every Premier League player to contribute 0.00001% of his weekly salary to help the greatest goal-taker the top division has ever seen. Or not.
Bobby Charlton took the record from Greavesie of course. He had much in common with the man who beat him at Wembley. They both played for Man U, both scored 49 goals from 106 games, both had humble beginnings and both were at pains to deny their baldness.
The Charlton comb-over fooled no one. Indeed the smallest breeze left Bobby's pate glisteningly free while the strands flew in his wake like a plume of smoke from a steamboat's funnel. (C.f Alan Gilzean, Ralph Coates - what the hell were they thinking?)
Rooney of course bought himself a topweave which to this day looks a little like it belongs to someone else. Frankly, footballers shouldn't give a shit whether their heads can be slapped or not. It's of no bloody consequence whatsoever and a bit pathetic and vain to think that it is.
Similarities between Wazza and Chazza end there though. Charlton was a barnstorming midfielder whose gentle demeanour was at odds with the dynamite in his boots. Rooney's dynamite is as likely to emerge from his brain as his boot. Cristiano Ronaldo can tell you that.
Michael Owen seemed destined to overhaul Charlton but ended up falling short. Well, writhing in agony on a touchline, really, as, once again, hamstrings overworked in his late adolescence by unthinking staff at Anfield twanged like so much perished elastic. Owen is now the least charismatic football pundit in living memory and I wish him every success with the gee-gees instead. Indeed any one of his gee-gees could make a more inspired contribution to a half-time review on BT Sport.
Before Owen we had the saintly Gary. Now there was a crisp finisher. He barely set foot outside the box, and now he's barely off it. Except for that penalty he would have joined Bobby. Rooney's penalty v Switzerland was struck with all the vehemence Lineker's lacked. For a man so wonderfully clinical in front of goal it is a moment of unrivalled embarrassment for Gaz: it's the football equivalent of Heston Blumenthal burning the toast or Darcey Bussell falling on her arse.
Each of these surpassed goalscorers seem to be better at scoring goals than Wayne. There are numerous reasons to downgrade Rooney's achievement then. His performances in major tournaments have been woeful since 2004. He has neither the predatory skill of Lineker or Greaves or the midfield drive and purposefulness of Charlton. But does that really actually matter folks?
In his defence, Rooney has often, both for club and country, had to 'do a job' for the team - which translates as having to be plopped somewhere because teammates are less adaptable. The current England dressing-room seem to admire him enormously - and like him too - which I'm imagining is less likely if you have to hang your coat on the peg next to the Gelled Winker Cristiano, or a truculent narcissist like Ibrahimovic.
Furthermore, the lad, regardless of whether he's having a stinker (and sometimes he looks like he's wearing cotton-wool boots), puts in a hell of a shift every time. Beckham had his limitations, many more than Wazza, and yet you could never doubt his commitment either.
So, while comparisons are odious - I haven't even mentioned Lofthouse and Shearer, who to my mind is still the best English centre-forward of my lifetime - let us not be so bloody churlish. I've heard people moan that Andy Murray is well boring (he sort of is), or that Stuart Broad is an arrogant sod (he can be), or that Lewis Hamilton is a massive cock (he is, he so is) but that doesn't mean we downgrade their achievements. And any road, Wayne seems to me like a decent fella.
So. Raise a glass to the lad, hell, have a fag too. He would if it were you
Thursday, 10 September 2015
Wednesday, 26 August 2015
Precious Stones Bound To Go
The window's closing and inexorably the cost of young English talent rises. Any club with a perceived gap in their squad is starting to leave extra sacks of cash outside the door of any lad with a UK passport and a smidgeon of talent.
The likes of Berahino and Stones have proven unable to resist. No doubt their agents, eyes on stalks and new Audi TT's in their sights, are helpfully nudging their clients into a trip to the manager's office. Martinez appears to be Stoneswalling the move; Pulis, ever the pragmatist is happier pushing the unwilling out of the door.
The greater the lure, the more the old heads on the comfy sofas urge restraint on the part of these kids. Loyalty and game-time are al very well Mr Lawro and Mr Shearer, but what about fuckloads of money and the odd trip off the bench in the Champions League, eh?
As with most things in life these days it's short-term gain versus long-term success. Raheem Sterling set the bar at the end of last season. He managed to combine flagrant disloyalty with poor form and virtually forced his way out of Liverpool. Berahino is missing sitters for the Baggies, ensuring a spell on the sidelines, increasing disaffection and getting even more entreaties from a Spurs team that gets no better with every passing season.
Clearly Chelsea have no one else in sight as a replacement for the warrior carthorse and captain JT. Mourinho has signalled his opinion: last year Terry was playing as well as he ever has; this year he's halfway to being dog-food. The latest offer is around £40 million. That's frankly mental. And Everton will have to accept. Or be 40 million quid less well off, and have a very grumpy centre half on their hands.
Of course there's the national picture here. We'd all like to see England benefit from our young players playing at a higher standard. But exactly how much will Stones play really? He can't rely on the numpty skipper getting himself a red card every weekend.
As usual, and with horrible cynicism, Chelsea are chucking out loan players like so many crumbs on a frozen bird table. Marin to Trabszonspoor, Cuadrado to Juventus, some other fuckwit you completely forgot about to somewhere you didn't know exists, etc.
Chelsea still can't resist buying talent just cos they can - Pedro seems a perfect example and his purchase leads to the temporary offloading of identical staff. So if Stones wants to improve as player he should probably stick it out at Goodison for a season longer. He's the best defender they have, and Jagielka isn't a bad bloke to have at your side.
But there's the estate in leafy Surrey, the bling, the West London lifestyle - and his agent might even encourage Stones to consider getting himself some of this too.
Meanwhile Everton look to strengthen their squad with a sixteenth of the fee with Spurs's haphazard hombre Fazio. Given Martinez's recent track record with centre-backs - Alcaraz, a man who defends like he's on the end of a parachute that's caught in a tree, comes to mind - Everton fans will be gnawing fingernails at the prospect of any new boy wandering in.
Spurs's pursuit of Berahino is understandable given that Pocchetino has three strikers, one of whom is a wonderful example to John Stones of what you can achieve if you combine a huge wage with a lack of commitment. Everyone's hoping that Harry Kane can keep up his brilliant form of last season but it's going to be bloody lonely out there on his tod. He's like the Ray Mears of goalscoring at the mo. So Saido's got to reckon on getting a lot of starts.
Of course one team that could well do with a centre forward - and who got shot of one over the summer - is Man United. Van Gaal, who is so eccentric he makes a Labour Party leadership election look straightforward, has now told everyone that Marouane Fellaini is a central striker. Given that David Moyes had him as a plodding holding midfielder with all the distribution of a postal strike, that's some change of role for the Sideshow Bob of Belgium.
Still, you look at the table and the facts don't lie. While United and Liverpool can't hardly score they can't concede either and with this Mourinhoesque dullness they might go far.
Meanwhile, if you have a teenager with talent in his toes and a keenness to learn and earn, well now's the time to start touting him around. You too might find yourself following a trail of gold coins and all the way up to the substitutes' bench of a top club for a five minute appearance in three years time on a blustery night in the League Cup.
Hell he might even get the chance to miss a decisive penalty in a shoot-out. We can always dream.
The likes of Berahino and Stones have proven unable to resist. No doubt their agents, eyes on stalks and new Audi TT's in their sights, are helpfully nudging their clients into a trip to the manager's office. Martinez appears to be Stoneswalling the move; Pulis, ever the pragmatist is happier pushing the unwilling out of the door.
The greater the lure, the more the old heads on the comfy sofas urge restraint on the part of these kids. Loyalty and game-time are al very well Mr Lawro and Mr Shearer, but what about fuckloads of money and the odd trip off the bench in the Champions League, eh?
As with most things in life these days it's short-term gain versus long-term success. Raheem Sterling set the bar at the end of last season. He managed to combine flagrant disloyalty with poor form and virtually forced his way out of Liverpool. Berahino is missing sitters for the Baggies, ensuring a spell on the sidelines, increasing disaffection and getting even more entreaties from a Spurs team that gets no better with every passing season.
Clearly Chelsea have no one else in sight as a replacement for the warrior carthorse and captain JT. Mourinho has signalled his opinion: last year Terry was playing as well as he ever has; this year he's halfway to being dog-food. The latest offer is around £40 million. That's frankly mental. And Everton will have to accept. Or be 40 million quid less well off, and have a very grumpy centre half on their hands.
Of course there's the national picture here. We'd all like to see England benefit from our young players playing at a higher standard. But exactly how much will Stones play really? He can't rely on the numpty skipper getting himself a red card every weekend.
As usual, and with horrible cynicism, Chelsea are chucking out loan players like so many crumbs on a frozen bird table. Marin to Trabszonspoor, Cuadrado to Juventus, some other fuckwit you completely forgot about to somewhere you didn't know exists, etc.
Chelsea still can't resist buying talent just cos they can - Pedro seems a perfect example and his purchase leads to the temporary offloading of identical staff. So if Stones wants to improve as player he should probably stick it out at Goodison for a season longer. He's the best defender they have, and Jagielka isn't a bad bloke to have at your side.
But there's the estate in leafy Surrey, the bling, the West London lifestyle - and his agent might even encourage Stones to consider getting himself some of this too.
Meanwhile Everton look to strengthen their squad with a sixteenth of the fee with Spurs's haphazard hombre Fazio. Given Martinez's recent track record with centre-backs - Alcaraz, a man who defends like he's on the end of a parachute that's caught in a tree, comes to mind - Everton fans will be gnawing fingernails at the prospect of any new boy wandering in.
Spurs's pursuit of Berahino is understandable given that Pocchetino has three strikers, one of whom is a wonderful example to John Stones of what you can achieve if you combine a huge wage with a lack of commitment. Everyone's hoping that Harry Kane can keep up his brilliant form of last season but it's going to be bloody lonely out there on his tod. He's like the Ray Mears of goalscoring at the mo. So Saido's got to reckon on getting a lot of starts.
Of course one team that could well do with a centre forward - and who got shot of one over the summer - is Man United. Van Gaal, who is so eccentric he makes a Labour Party leadership election look straightforward, has now told everyone that Marouane Fellaini is a central striker. Given that David Moyes had him as a plodding holding midfielder with all the distribution of a postal strike, that's some change of role for the Sideshow Bob of Belgium.
Still, you look at the table and the facts don't lie. While United and Liverpool can't hardly score they can't concede either and with this Mourinhoesque dullness they might go far.
Meanwhile, if you have a teenager with talent in his toes and a keenness to learn and earn, well now's the time to start touting him around. You too might find yourself following a trail of gold coins and all the way up to the substitutes' bench of a top club for a five minute appearance in three years time on a blustery night in the League Cup.
Hell he might even get the chance to miss a decisive penalty in a shoot-out. We can always dream.
Wednesday, 19 August 2015
More More Mourinho
Okay. It's been a long, long time. There are reasons why I've not been opining on footy for a while.
1. I was out the country and didn't fancy guessing how things were going back here.
2. By the time I got back it was pretty much done and dusted and you lot hate it when I write about the golf or the tennis.
3. I have had a personal bereavement - and apart Boro not making it to the top tier, my Dad passed away n all.
4. I was going to write a blog to coincide with the start of the new season but frankly I was too excited about the Aussies truly wonderful capitulation that I believe we should have postponed the start of the Premier League, collectively jumped on a bus, all come down to London and found as many bar staff as we could and pointed at them, yelling "Ha-haaaa!"
Fifthly, the beginning of the Premier League was already being hyped up like a bloated floating corpse on the Tees estuary and I didn't want to buy into it.
It felt like the same old, same old. Chelsea or Citeh to win, unless Van Gaal could arbitrarily arrange his overly expensive trinkets into summat resembling a team. Arsenal arrive neck-deep in optimisim only to be turned over by a bit of hard work and organisation. Liverpool keep slapping the cash around like a jilted bride indulging in retail therapy in order to forget about the guy that left.
And yet, it is footy we're talking about. And although come the end of the season there'll be the usual suspects in the top four, and a plucky upstart scraping into the Europa League, and the Stadium of Light will be emptying out by half-time every other weekend, the beginning has been a little web of intrigue all its own.
And, as ever, the spider at the centre of the web is the smirking, preening narcissist Jose Mi Amor Mourinho. It can't last but for those of us whose favourite psychiatrist is Schaden Freud, it's been a hugely enjoyable beginning.
First, the draw with Swansea and the scapegoating of medical staff; then the hammering at Citeh. In the first instance, the referee's decisions were beneath comment (i.e, correct); the second was a 'fake result'. It must be very frustrating for Mrs Mourinho if and when she has a genuine orgasm.
Of more long term interest was the substitution of one John Terry at the Etihad. Mourinho's rationale was wholly logical. Navas, Sterling and Aguero vs JT is the least fair fight since Goliath told David that slings were not allowed. Indeed Aguero seemed to be thriving on the Sterling Silva service.
Needless to say as Terry sat on the bench you could almost see his skull rattling like a pan-lid on a pot of boiling potatoes. Meanwhile Costa, a man who probably has to turn all the mirrors in his house to face the wall just to avoid punching himself, stormed around with a bandaged head like Dr David Banner after a particularly irritating call to his insurance company.
All this means that there's one of these early-season doomsday scenarios looming "What's gone wrong with Chelsea?" Well, they've lost a couple of games. And a couple of doctors. And a sense of reality, if Jose's perceptions are to be taken literally. But this is not a crisis. It's just quite funny. Enjoy. Here's two blokes doing just that having heard about the Etihad result.
(I can't tell you how hard it was to find a pic of Wenger smiling)
On Thursday the final test begins and I'd like to enjoy that as much as the last two. Like Chelsea, the Aussies will bounce back at some point but while England continue to bowl against the biggest load of nickers since Fagin patrolled the streets of Dickensian London, let's not give 'em the chance of a sliver of self-respect.
What's been most enthralling about the cricket - and yes I have really enjoyed it as much as any sporting event since London 2012 - is the fact that England are relying on the flair and exuberance of young lads to carry them forward.
Root continues to taunt like one of them ridiculous twelve-year old wunderkinds that occasionally get on to Countdown and humiliate middle-aged wearers of Pringle sweaters and floral frocks. Stokes flings himself about like Boris Becker in his pomp (and if you see his courtside at a Djokovic match you'll never believe how impressive that once was). Wood and Moeen frolic about like giddy lambs, unafraid of the perils that have dogged their ancestors.
And meanwhile Broad, Anderson, Cook and Bell beam like grandparents newly-enlivened by the arrival of delirious toddlers. And all of this under the inebriate eyes of a nation of sun-kissed revellers totally unused to such splendidness. Except we hammered them two years ago. and then four years before that. In fact they're not much cop. 'Kin brilliant isn't it?
Oh... and PS
Premier League champions? Chelsea - I know, I know.
FA Cup? Everton.
League Cup (or whatever the hell they call it now)? Liverpool
Chumps League Qualifiers? Citeh, ManU, Arsenal, bold eh?
Europa League? Spurs, Everton.
Going dahn? Sunderland (by Christmas), Bournemouth, Newcastle.
1. I was out the country and didn't fancy guessing how things were going back here.
2. By the time I got back it was pretty much done and dusted and you lot hate it when I write about the golf or the tennis.
3. I have had a personal bereavement - and apart Boro not making it to the top tier, my Dad passed away n all.
4. I was going to write a blog to coincide with the start of the new season but frankly I was too excited about the Aussies truly wonderful capitulation that I believe we should have postponed the start of the Premier League, collectively jumped on a bus, all come down to London and found as many bar staff as we could and pointed at them, yelling "Ha-haaaa!"
Fifthly, the beginning of the Premier League was already being hyped up like a bloated floating corpse on the Tees estuary and I didn't want to buy into it.
It felt like the same old, same old. Chelsea or Citeh to win, unless Van Gaal could arbitrarily arrange his overly expensive trinkets into summat resembling a team. Arsenal arrive neck-deep in optimisim only to be turned over by a bit of hard work and organisation. Liverpool keep slapping the cash around like a jilted bride indulging in retail therapy in order to forget about the guy that left.
And yet, it is footy we're talking about. And although come the end of the season there'll be the usual suspects in the top four, and a plucky upstart scraping into the Europa League, and the Stadium of Light will be emptying out by half-time every other weekend, the beginning has been a little web of intrigue all its own.
And, as ever, the spider at the centre of the web is the smirking, preening narcissist Jose Mi Amor Mourinho. It can't last but for those of us whose favourite psychiatrist is Schaden Freud, it's been a hugely enjoyable beginning.
First, the draw with Swansea and the scapegoating of medical staff; then the hammering at Citeh. In the first instance, the referee's decisions were beneath comment (i.e, correct); the second was a 'fake result'. It must be very frustrating for Mrs Mourinho if and when she has a genuine orgasm.
Of more long term interest was the substitution of one John Terry at the Etihad. Mourinho's rationale was wholly logical. Navas, Sterling and Aguero vs JT is the least fair fight since Goliath told David that slings were not allowed. Indeed Aguero seemed to be thriving on the Sterling Silva service.
Needless to say as Terry sat on the bench you could almost see his skull rattling like a pan-lid on a pot of boiling potatoes. Meanwhile Costa, a man who probably has to turn all the mirrors in his house to face the wall just to avoid punching himself, stormed around with a bandaged head like Dr David Banner after a particularly irritating call to his insurance company.
All this means that there's one of these early-season doomsday scenarios looming "What's gone wrong with Chelsea?" Well, they've lost a couple of games. And a couple of doctors. And a sense of reality, if Jose's perceptions are to be taken literally. But this is not a crisis. It's just quite funny. Enjoy. Here's two blokes doing just that having heard about the Etihad result.
(I can't tell you how hard it was to find a pic of Wenger smiling)
On Thursday the final test begins and I'd like to enjoy that as much as the last two. Like Chelsea, the Aussies will bounce back at some point but while England continue to bowl against the biggest load of nickers since Fagin patrolled the streets of Dickensian London, let's not give 'em the chance of a sliver of self-respect.
What's been most enthralling about the cricket - and yes I have really enjoyed it as much as any sporting event since London 2012 - is the fact that England are relying on the flair and exuberance of young lads to carry them forward.
Root continues to taunt like one of them ridiculous twelve-year old wunderkinds that occasionally get on to Countdown and humiliate middle-aged wearers of Pringle sweaters and floral frocks. Stokes flings himself about like Boris Becker in his pomp (and if you see his courtside at a Djokovic match you'll never believe how impressive that once was). Wood and Moeen frolic about like giddy lambs, unafraid of the perils that have dogged their ancestors.
And meanwhile Broad, Anderson, Cook and Bell beam like grandparents newly-enlivened by the arrival of delirious toddlers. And all of this under the inebriate eyes of a nation of sun-kissed revellers totally unused to such splendidness. Except we hammered them two years ago. and then four years before that. In fact they're not much cop. 'Kin brilliant isn't it?
Oh... and PS
Premier League champions? Chelsea - I know, I know.
FA Cup? Everton.
League Cup (or whatever the hell they call it now)? Liverpool
Chumps League Qualifiers? Citeh, ManU, Arsenal, bold eh?
Europa League? Spurs, Everton.
Going dahn? Sunderland (by Christmas), Bournemouth, Newcastle.
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