Is Capello Thick?

Montenegro. I’m guessing it means Black Mountain. Which is pretty much what Fabio Capello has to scale if he’s to win over the media and fans alike after Tuesday night.

If I remember rightly, the South African debacle was going to be an opportunity to blood some new lads, to pump fresh life into the rotting cadaver of England’s football. Seemingly Capello had revived the lumbering beast enough to scare off Bulgaria and Switzerland, but Nico Krancjar’s Dad knew better.

Here’s a man who clearly put his sanity on the line for his big Wembley night – he watched Algeria v England from the World Cup and thought ‘We could do that.’

That’s right get ten men behind the ball against Capello’s England and they’ll counter by keeping their ten men behind the ball too. Get out o’ that one you former Yugoslavians.

Give England possession of the football and then sit back and marvel at the almost total lack of ingenuity. If scientists were England footballers we’d still be waking up every morning and shielding our eyes from the big scary yellow thing in the sky.

And I’m prepared once and for all to lay most of the blame at the door of the manager.

True, certain absences didn’t help. Crouch and Rooney is a match made in Wife Swap. Rooney comes deep, Crouchy stays where he is. Rooney tries to stay up alongside the Cleopatra’s Needle of Football and the ball pings off he head in all directions and the old Scouse bulldog is left confused, frustrated and a yellow card in waiting.

Funny how Wazza’s insisting he hasn’t got an ankle injury when the Ferguson says he has. I wouldn’t rule out Rooney getting a definitively poorly ankle in the next couple of training sessions at United. If his ankle’s sound, his mind’s not. And a moony, loony Rooney means the national team create nowt.

Crouch is and always has been Plan B. If you’re smarter players are getting nowhere, thrown on the bamboo and get some tired defenders in a tizzy.

Capello’s also got a problem with his utterly unfeasible adoration with Gareth Barry. Here’s a man who plods around like a bloody pensioner and, worse still, just giving the ball to the nearest man regardless of their nationality. He needs a bloody shopmobility card that lad.

It’s nowt short of embarrassing how slow he is. I’ve seen milk turn faster. Owen Hargreaves is rumoured to be in the squad at United this weekend and hellfire I hope he stays fit. Cos that lad has an engine. I’m not even sure Barry’s got a laggy band.

But Capello’s worse decisions come when it’s time to change the flow of the game. We had an hour of Englishmen knocking at the Montenegran door with the football equivalent of a scatter cushion. What does Fab do? Takes off Ashley Young, a small and nippy right-winger with a variable ability to get the ball in the box. And replace him with (fuck me old boots!) Shaun Height-Limits, a small and nippy right-winger with a variable ability to get the ball in the box.



I mean what’s that about? If I order a pint of ale at the Blue Bell and it’s off, I don’t expect them to tip the damn thing away and pour me another one! Change the flaming barrel. Or give us summat new!

But wait, here’s another substitution... take off Peter Crouch, a tall persevering and awkward customer who can cause defenders problems in the air but has an annoying habit of giving away too many free kicks and bring on... Kevin Davies a tall persevering and awkward customer who can cause defenders problems in the air but has an annoying habit of giving away too many free kicks.

It’s mad! I tell you, it’s bloody crazy. There’s a Plan A and Plan B is Plan A only more so. It’s actually worse than mad. It’s thick.

It’s thick to think that Gerrard spraying Hollywood passes hither and thither from a deep-lying position is going to get you more goals than him popping up in and around the opposition’s penalty area.

It’s thick not to realise that Adam Johnson could’ve had a dig on the other flank for a bit, especially as the right-back was a new boy and AJ was our biggest threat.
It’s thick to think that the way to unpick a massed defence is to leave a genuinely smart footballer, Jack Wilshere on the bench.

It’s really dense to imagine that a team that had good results under a liberated captain in Gerrard should revert back to one who barely had the job before he was crocked any road.

And why the hell was there no friendly at the weekend? We can organise an utterly bloody pointless one after the World Cup shambles and in the first week of the new season – but when there’d be good reason to give the players a bit of a run-out – NOWT.

All these things were called stubborn before. Now it’s unintelligent, I tell you.

Meanwhile the press conferences are turning into summat from Allo Allo. Our mother tongue is like the bloody Scarlet Pimpernel for Capello. Surely he should be getting better? And if he’s communicating to his players in this incredibly indecipherable way then really what hope do they have?

It’s not as if these lads don't need a fluent English speaker to say things really slowly in the first place. But clearly Capello doesn’t help himself when his oratory is less Cicero and more Manuel from Fawlty Towers. I mean how long before we have the unedifying sight of Stuart Pearce apologising for his gaffer by saying ‘I’m sorry he’s from San Canzian d'Isonzo?

[By the by, I don’t want to do any more Liverpool stuff. Let’s just hope these new batch of Americans are the tunnel-building life-saving kind and not the ones who barge in and lob grenades around.]

Why We Love A Skipper

Okay. Fabio Capello has dropped some clangers. No doubt about that. This time he's brought in Stewart Downing - presumably to remind Adam Johnson of what he could've been if life had been less kind. And picking Shaun Wright-Phillips AGAIN will have every Clanger on their planet - and the Soup Dragon - and the Iron Chicken - laughing their little woollen togs off.

Some Clangers search vainly for a football after it was crossed by Shaun Wright-Phillips

But this captaincy business. I confess I've tried to get with the Italian's line of thinking. There should be 11 skippers on the park. It hasn't worked. The Germans did us up like 11 kippers. So why does it matter?

Well, I think it's mattered to me since the forgettably-named quicksilver carrot-top Andy Smudger Smith got the school captainct aged 9 when clearly I was the better candidate. People were scared of me. A knowledge of fags, French kissing and intercourse put me way above the ginger lad.

Smudger bathed in the worshipful glow that blazed down on him every time he passed thiry keepy-uppies, but was it him nicking the football cards from Oundsworth's?

Oh Smudger could tie up a defender in knots so complex even Akela hadn't seen 'em before, but was it him found the discarded porn mag in the truckers lay-by?

Nah. I had respect of a more solid kind. I had a gob on me n all. I was socks-round-me-ankles, mud-from-tip-to-toe, he was a prancing Persil ad, all bigheadedness and bluey-whiteness.

And our the teacher made him skipper. You wanted your role-model to be Captain Fantastic and what we got was Lieutenant Pigeon.

In England, you grow up with the belief that one day, if you work hard, if you're gritty, honest and never-say-die, if you are the still, certain pulsing heartbeat of the men with whom you play, then you, sunshine, shall wear the armband.

And not only the heart. The bloody guts n all.

That's how it is. It's not an award that gets passed around like toffees at a dentists convention. Not for us.

You only have to look at John Terry's reaction to being relieved of the honour. (That sounds like a sordid euphemism, but it always does if 'John Terry' is in the sentence.) He played like a carthorse and whined like a girl. And he's out the squad again cos of a bad back. Who was it this time, JT?

You could also look at Gerrard's marked improvement. Admittedly, this has summat to do with not having to shar his football boots with Frank Lampard (while they're both on the pitch) but Stevie has proved time and time again that the added responsibility suits him.

I reckon the lad can be a right whiny pain-in-the-backside but give him his best position and a stretchy little ribbon round his skinny Scouse arm and he can do the business for you.

Of course he should stay skipper. Rio's got the job back cos Capello has this inflexible approach to everything. The man must be a nightmare to be married to. I can see him being like Richard Briers in Ever Decreasing Circles, folding napkins in particular ways and writing out his team-sheet with a ruler to underline everyone's name.

Thank Christ he's not a referee. He'd be getting the tape measure out every time a wall is formed wouldn't he? You'd have penalties retaken so many times that even Graham Alexander could miss one.

And you know, if Fabio really doesn't think it means owt, he could try asking his players. Or that vein-bulging slab of Full English, his assistant Stuart Psycho Pearce. (Although the Psycho reputation has been utterly undermined by the fact that Capello has reduced his bench-buddy to the role of hapless stooge and punchbag. A sort of Phil Neal with bruises.)

There's the language barrier but I'm sure if he gets Stuart to speak slowly he'll come up with summat resembling English.

And if he does he'll hear the word 'honour' mentioned over and over again. And even the pampered millionaires that so frequently distribute so much silage across our international playing-fields do actually mean it when they say it.

And not only does it matter from a sentimental point-of-view. To someone of my vintage it means you can be mentioned in the same breath as Bobby Moore. The greatest English centre-half there ever was, by the way, if any wet-behind-the-ears whipper-snappers are reading.

It matters from a pure ego point of view. You're the captain. The team wins summat. Yes, it's about everybody. Not just about me... blah blah... Great bunch of lads... blah blah... really pulled together... blah blah... the gaffer's been amazing blah blah...

...but when it comes down to it the lad wearing the armband is the lad that steps up to the front, leads his mates forward, shakes the parasitic hands of all the no-mark dignitaries and disinterested blue-bloods, and clasps his big hairy mitts around the glorious glowing goblet of gold and holds it aloft while your mates and fans roar you into paradise!

And any man that doesn't want that job isn't fit to wear the shirt.

And I mean you Smudger, wherever you are. Cos we won fuck-all with you at the helm.

In the meantime England's squad members have been making more withdrawals than a queue of savings account holders outside a branch of Anglo-Irish.

I'm reckoning Capello will have to go with:

Hart; G. Johnson (And please if there is a God can you find someone in the country who is a better right-back and isn't called Neville), Lescott, Ferdinand, A.Cole; Young, Barry (cue ponderous comedy music played on the tuba), Gerrard, A.Johnson; Rooney, Crouch.

Or Kevin Davies.



Honest lad, Kev. Dirty. And honest. But Kevin Davies. Truly, the cupboard is bare.

The Hell of Hicksville

Okay. I’ll be honest. There’s been a bit of me smirking like a third-rate Eastenders villain at the plight of Liverpool Football Club. I’m as ready as the next Englishman to wallow in the misfortune of the mighty.

Old Ollie said he got tingles just reading the ‘This Is Anfield’ sign on his way on to the pitch. Me too Ian. I get a frisson when I know you’ve got three points in the bag even before the game’s begun. Thing it’s all gone a bit unbelievable now. Like the most blatant plastic surgery, Liverpool’s gone tits up.

There are five tits in question. Though I think quite possibly the American tits (strictly speaking, chickadees) are the ones with most to answer. From what I can gather, Martin Broughton responded to Hicks’s intransigence over decent offers for the club by just huffing off to the press and leaving the poker-faced Yank billionaire playing Texas Hold ‘Em (Till a Playboy Oil Baron Comes A Calling).

At the present rate Hicks and Gillett stand to lose 140 million – not sure if that’s pounds or dollars – like it makes a flamin’ difference. Basically, it’s shitloads. Even Georgie Osborne might blench at taking that much cash off someone in one fell swoop. So in a way you can understand their resistance.

And in another way – just take the money and eff off, lads. It’s not like it’s the first time for Tom. No, he’s done this with other sports franchises in the States.



He seems to have the capacity to get other people’s money to buy him into new businesses without ever making making a decent fist of any of them.

Why are these people he’s borrowing from still chucking cash at him? And why, when he was making such a patent mess of US franchises like the Dallas Stars and the recently bankrupted (sound familiar?) Texas Rangers, did LFC think he was such a good catch? The only connection I can find between the two is that they both spend a lot of time in the red.

At least in the other two instances Hicks was shitting on his own doorstep. Texas. The Lone Star State. Or should that be Loan Star? I don’t reckon it’s a part of the world we Brits have ever felt that enamoured of. JR Ewing, George Dubya, Tom Hicks... there was the Texan bar in the 70s which I liked but I do blame it for the fact I’ve now got so many fillings the dentist uses cavity wall insulation to keep the teeth from crumbling altogether.

I looked up a site of Famous Texans. Here’s the bloke who invented Star Trek. And Jayne Mansfield. That’s about your lot.

Hicks’s response to the crisis was straight out of Southfork too. The Brits on the board go blabbing. They’re not on the board anymore. According to Tom. Possibly not according to law. He’s replaced them with two objective people. His friend and his son. Meanwhile Martin Brought-In reveals he signed up on the understanding that the owners would not frustrate his attempts to find a buyer for the club. Unless that buyer costs the owners the GDP of Belgium. Maybe.

It’s carnage. Like two lions fighting each other while the press vultures pick at the Anfield carcass til there’s nowt left.

Still, like in all good Texan yarns, the cavalry have just appeared on the horizon. Reday to ride to the rescue is... another yank.

This one, and his pals own the Boston Red Sox. That’s right. They spell ‘socks’ that way in the US of A. They tell the time by their clox, their ships are moored in dox, and their geese gather in flox. What a bunch of Cox.

Except they’re not. And this bloke, John Henry, doesn’t appear to be all bad either. Given that his predecessor will be Hicks, even Nick Flaming Leeson would look a decent bet.

From what I can glean – and remember I’m about as financially literate as Wayne Rooney is... well... literate – he doesn’t rely too much on piling loads of debt onto his acquisitions at the first possible opportunity. And he doesn’t seem to be too much of a bullshitter either. His consortium saved a famous sports stadium rather than building a brand new utterly soulless slightly out of town facility with all the buzz and atmos of a Trappist monks karaoke night.

If Hicks can have the club wrenched from his cold dead hand (and here I paraphrase Charlton Heston who may not have been Texan but would have fitted in dead well there) there may still be an Anfield to go watch football at. And despite the piss-taking earlier on, it is a great stadium and I doubt a new ‘un in the centre of Stanley Park would have nearly the same resonance.

Were it not for the fact of John Henry’s birthplace I reckon Liverpool fans might be able to see a glimmer of light.

But the trouble is, once you just let the nearest billionaire take a hold of your football club you are at the mercy of whoever the hell might want it next. And hellfire that person could be anyone... Thaksin Shinawatra, Sulaiman Al-Fahim, Malcolm (Shudder, United fans, Shudder!) Glazer... any Johnny-come-lately basically.

'Yes sir, I'm tellin y'all, Ewe-nah-ted are next!'

Abramovich set the benchmark. But even he won’t just sit around coughing up tenners like a malfunctioning cashpoint. I hope this rich man’s plaything of a League rights itself sooner or later and we just have a bunch of similarly endowed institutions all battling it out on a level playing field (not that there are any bloody playing-fields left in this country) and all will be right with the world.

Although we’d still have Man Friggin’ City.

Bugger.