Cup A Load Of That!

At last! Just when you thought it was safe to dismiss football as a self-interested bunch of millionaires playing at sport while the rest of us cough up to fund their increasingly cynical, egotistical and exploitative endeavours, up pops the FA Cup. Not to mention the League Cup, by crikey.

Yes, football can still be a wonderful focal point for a community. Football can still reward hard work and loyalty, from fans and players alike. Football can still sit sentimentally in our hearts like a good pie and a cup of Bovril from a thermos. (Although the pies ran out dead quickly at Boundary Park.)

In light of the weekend's events you might point to Bradford City as the tipping point. Hellfire, thought the other tiddlers, if the Bantams, who cost about as much as a Premier League footballer's round at a nightclub, can reach Wembley then who the hell couldn't?

I confess to the odd tear when the final whistle blew at Valley Parade. It couldn't have been more miraculous had Gary Jones wafted his hand across the sky and turned the rain into rioja. Granted they were fortunate to be playing a team with all the defensive rigour of a wendy house.

And is it me or do teams that struggle in the top-flight always have a striker who is a 'real handful' but can't actually do what he's paid to do? Christian Benteke's conversion rate must be lower than a door-to-door Jehovah's witness's. He is well ahead in the race for the 2013 Emile Heskey Big Lunk of the Year Award.

It's no wonder Villa keep losing these evening kick-offs. Lambert has to go round his team at 7pm and get them out of their pyjamas with a cup of warm milk before he can get them on the pitch.

But stuff like that doesn't happen more than once, does it? Ah but wait. What about plucky Luton! I'm still struggling with the concept of Luton Town being a non-league side - although probably not quite as much as the average Hatters fan. In my head Luton Town still means Eric Morecambe, and David Pleat dancing in his hushpuppies like an unwelcome uncle at a teenage disco, and Paul Walsh and Ricky Hill promising to be top flight England internationals. (Time does strange things to your memory).

Well now they can add a Premier League scalp in Norwich City as can MK Dons - a forever unlikeable club given its origins. But come Sunday, and there were three certs for the Death of the Romance of the Cup.

Then Leeds beat Spurs - who still betray all the hallmarks of showboating fancy Dans when push comes to shove. That kind of equates romance with Neil Warnock, which is about as ugly a thought as one can imagine whilst keeping your breakfast down. Then Brentford almost turned over Chelsea, a result that a lot of Blues fans wouldn't really of minded given that it would've confirmed every suspicion they had about the Tapas restaurant manager in charge.

And finally we got to Oldham-Liverpool. Poor old ITV. They get the short straw again. A comfy 4-0 victory for the Big Boys, surely...? Rodgers selected a strong team, so we're told. Jordan Henderson was the midfield maestro, and played like an inflatable Steven Gerrard with a slow puncture. (You can buy inflatable Steven Gerrards from just about any Adult Shop in Liverpool. There's not a Koppite who hasn't slept with one.)

There was Fabio Borini, too. One of those anonymous Italians who sounds like he should be good but is more than a bit shit.

But it was one of those FA Cup games. Boundary Park, with stands on only three sides, has the feel of a half-built car-park. The weather was perfect. Rain bucketed down and fell off the roof of the ricketty stand like a partly-vandalised water feature. Wind howled like a portent of doom.

And Oldham - one point in eight games - had in Matt Smith a hero in waiting. Like Bradford's Jim Hanson, a huge bastard with some weedy defenders to get amongst, a sunflower rising amongst the daisies. And who the hell is Coates and why can't we pronounce his name like the legendary Ralph's?

It took Rodgers 55 minutes to bring on the Messiah and all Stevie G did - apart from illustrating how much Henderson has to learn - was witter away at the referee for the rest of the game. You could just hear his squeaky Scouse whine, couldn't you? - like a fly trapped in a jar. (Okay he did hit the bar and was their best player once he came on but... )

It was all too lovely, wasn't it? The only team to really puncture the sentiment was my dear old Boro who stumbled horribly past a very good Aldershot, and will probably fare a lot better should we get them lightweights Chelsea in the next round.

So a week, and a weekend shorn of the cynicism of the season thus far; a throwback to Ronnie Radford and Sutton United and Blyth Spartans and many others too numerous to mention. The only blot on the landscape came not from a player but from a ball boy.

Media reaction to Eden Hazard 'kicking a ball boy' has been utterly ludicrous. I know of only one person who didn't think the lad deserved a cracked rib and that's his Mum. Even the boy himself accepts he's been a total nob.

Yes, footballers are arrogant and superior and, let's not beat around the bush here, obscenely rich (so would you be if someone agreed to give you that much money a week) but they don't have to be patient with that sort of numpty. They say football only has itself to blame for the ball boy's behaviour. Really? Nah. The lad is, as he should be, ashamed of himself.

Hazard should be getting a one-game ban, a tap on the wrist. And, if you ask me, a pat on the back.

The Barcode Blues

When I tipped Newcastle United to finish fourth this season, I was drunk. I must have been. (It was after 9 o'clock.)

I also didn't realise that the likes of Cabaye and Ben Arfa would be spending a lot of time on their sofas. Furthermore I didn't think for a second that Papiss Cisse would be a carbon copy of the end of last season but in negative. Indeed, seen in negative Papiss Cisse would look like a white-faced loon with the finishing instincts of a badger in sponge boots - or, as he is better known, Fernando Torres.

It's ironic in these days of short-term, interim, wing-and-a-prayer managers that Newcastle should so stink when their boss is on an eight-year contract. Despite the Geordie bottlers evident success last season I couldn't find many of 'em who were pleased with Pardew getting such apparent job security.

I'll be honest, we north-easterners (loth as I am to lumping us all together) divn tek kindly to some southern jessie gannin up here and tellin' us what footy's aboot, like. NEVER forget this a HOTBED of football. South Shields is England's Copacabana Beach, right? The Wallsend Boys Club has a  cloning machine that's guaranteed to produce twinkle-toed talents with terrible haircuts.

A cockney barrow boy with passable good looks is not what we want up here. We want a bloke who looks like he walks into lampposts every week, and sounds like he enjoys doing so, especially if he's 'taking one for the team'.

Of course the Barcodes are doubly damned cos they've got a Fat Del Boy made good as their chairman. The Managing Director Derek Llambias isn't exactly whole-heartedly embraced by the Toon Faithful, unless it's to squeeze the bleeding life out of him.

The fact that Llambias, Ashley and Pardew are firm friends does make it look like the cast of some two-bit Guy Ritchie gangster flick have descended on Tyneside and turned St. James's Park into their own little piece of Larndon Tarn. The eight-year contract reeks more of good mates helping each other out than sound football and business sense.

In short, Pardew's going to have to work a lot bloody harder than, say, Sir Bobby Robson, to win the fans over. Unlike Sir Bobby, he's got a board who'll back him. And to be fair, a very good season behind him. Hence my inebriate optimism at the beginning of the season (laced, possibly, with the hope of my pundit's curse).

Under the likes of Freddie Shepherd the Reading defeat might of signalled the end.  Certainly Reading are this year's 'plucky' losers. Any point gained gets a patronising pat on the back, like the team have just managed to write its own name or wipe its own arse. McDermott insists he's not under pressure and his team are proving it.

Meanwhile Tyneside confidence is going to be low when a team like Reading's equaliser is swept in off the body of a forward imitating a penguin returning to the icefloe. Newcastle are in a desperate need of a pick-me-up and a decent French right-back is not the tonic they need. The lack of Demba Ba and the continuing misfiring of Cisse could well spell trouble. If Shearer's in charge with ten games to go the game's up my Geordie friends. (Okay, friend, singular.)

Of course, vying for the tag of plucky losers this year was Southampton. (That's if you don't include Arsenal who continue to prove that they can give those top-flight teams a real run for their money, bless 'em.)

The Saints made a poor start (they did have United, City, Everton and Spurs in their first seven matches) but Adkins turned it around. His reward? Cheers mate but we at Southampton FC have  a different idea of how a manager should look and sound. He's got a funny name. He's worked in Spain and everything. He will take the club forward.

That's right, the bloke who has led the club to two successive promotions and up and out of the relegation zone after a draw at the European champions is taking them sideways, isn't he? You ruthless, vicious, cynical, arrogant tossers. It was bad enough when Newcastle dumped Hughton, but this. It's such a flagrant disgrace, it's positively Suarezian.

Adkins struck a chord with most of us natives, I reckon. He seemed a stout solid citizen. Honest, straightforward, not too sophisticated. The sort of bloke that Tynesiders welcome. He did of course come up with the most lamentable excuse for Rodriguez's dive last week but we'll leave that to one side.

The only exucse for replacing him, it seems to me, is malice. Unless Fagin's in charge at the Saints and he couldn't stop singing 'You've got to pick a Pochettino or two.'

All I know about the Argentinian is that he's a decent leg for Michael Owen to pretend to fall over. Watch this: http://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=england+v+argentina+2002&view=detail&mid=2ADE0CEF67424F3606EF2ADE0CEF67424F3606EF&first=0
..and you'll see where Chelsea's Ramires gets his cunning stunts from.

Frankly I don't wish the guy well. I hope Southampton pay for their decision. I'd be surprised if they don't. But first they've got to get below Newcastle. It's not going to be easy.

Meanwhile Adkins will be back in a job very soon. I understand the Blackburn Rovers job is up for grabs in the next couple of weeks.

Pundits Never Fail

One of the great joys of being a football pundit is the ability to always be right regardless. Anyone whose occupation depends not upon predicting the future but on reassessing the past has a considerable advantage. As someone once said ‘Hindsight is a wonderful thing’. And as my mate Tony Thompson said “Fuck me that’s an easy job.”

I listened to the Arsenal-Man City game yesterday on the radio. Martin Keown was the expert summariser. Keown was part of a back four that Wenger inherited and was sensible enough not to tear apart. Lee Dixon was the pretty boy of that unit which tells you all you need to know about the rest of them.  They redefined the concept of ‘winning ugly’.

Since they left Wenger has proved that he picks centre-backs like he’s playing Deal or No Deal. There could be anyone in his box – Igor Stepanovs or Sol Campbell. Arsene just doesn’t quite know.

As a pundit Keown is pretty sure-footed. When Dzeko went down in the 10^th minute there seemed to be some confusion as to why Mike Dean had blown his whistle. When the red card was shown there was consternation. Keown couldn’t see ‘much in it’. After the seventeenth replay, Martin conceded that there might have been a case for the penalty to be given (what, because Koscielny had Dzeko around the waist like he was measuring him for a pair of casual slacks you mean?).

Meanwhile that pillar of the BBC sport establishment – I said ‘pillar’ – Alan Hansen said he didn’t think it was a red card but if the referee is applying the strict letter of the law I suppose you could say that it should have been a red card. What kind of double-speak is this?

There was also that lovely phrase ‘the game was ruined as a spectacle’ – Man City beating their feeder club was always going to be spectacular was it? – as if Koscielny bore no part of the blame for the game becoming ten v eleven.

Back on the radio, Keown’s first reaction to the Kompany tackle was that it looked bad from here. But after another fifteen camera angles, it was proved to be a terrible decision by the referee who was already having a ‘mare as it was.

Peter Schmeichel – another of these pundits with an unblemished record in both football management and officiating (he’s never done either) – said that if Kompany’s challenge was a red card then there’s no point in making a tackle in football. Well fair enough. I wonder what you said at the time of the challenge. Cos everyone in our pub was saying he’s got to go, the dirty bugger.

To be fair, Kompany himself, a man who regularly rises above the slurry that passes for football comment these days, said he didn’t blame the ref for making a mistake.

Every game of footy has its pivotal moments and it’s much easier if they’re refereeing blunders. Easier to analyse. Easier to declare that injustice has been done. Easier to absolve the player of any blame.

No one seems to have had a pop at Koscielny for getting the wrong side of his man and hauling him to the ground like an amateur wrestler. It was bloody awful defending.

Nigel Adkins reached new levels of codswallop on Saturday following his team’s controversial win over the Villa Park 5^th Cub Scouts.  http://www.bbc.co.uk/sport/0/football/21000076#asset

You might have to wade through a bit of cliché-ridden waffle before you get to the justification of Jay Rodriguez’s ridiculous dive. It really is the sort of self-serving utter bollocks that gives football managers a bad name.

Teammate Rickie Lambert thought it was a 'stonewall' penalty. Presumably when he was growing up in Kirkby Lambert's neighbours made their stone walls out of fuck-all. 

Paul Lambert says Mark Halsey will be embarrassed when he sees it back. Possibly. It’d be nice, just once, if the likes of Adkins and Lambert would wonder whether Jay Rodriquez might just carry a small burden of shame for his appalling plummet. I swear to God you could make a damn fine mime troupe out of the attacking players in the Premier League right now.

I’m sorry if this is becoming a familiar lament but why the hell can’t football be honest with itself instead of all this mealy-mouthed excusing and shrugging that goes on?

David Moyes said Fellaini behaved terribly the other week after nutting Ryan Shawcross, and everyone looked on open-mouthed as if he'd somehow broken the managerial sacrament on defending the players regardless of whether they've been patently dishonest or not. To be honest I was expecting the age-old 'well he's a physical player and if you take that edgeaway from him he's not [insert thuggish footballer's name]' argument.

So I've been trying to work out why I'm so down on the footy at the moment and you know what -  I blame the Olympics.

How dare all those athletes compete so fairly, honestly and movingly? It's like they were trying to say that quiet and dignified preparation and a respect for your sport and your fellow competitors is all part of some sort of ideal. And that it is possible to win things without resorting to deceit, rule-bending and playground banter.

But that just doesn't make sense. I've been watching footy for getting on for forty years and in the last twenty I know that while being good and honest and respecting the officials is all well and good, in practice it won't get you very far. I mean to be frank that attitude is what your modern footballer would call 'unprofessional'.

So yes, well done London 2012. It was lovely, like a beautiful dream. A kind of sporting Shangri-La if you will. But we're back to reality now: managers struck by temporary blindness; pundits prattling on in sanctimonious fashion; and if we're not careful officials cowering in their dressing-rooms. It's great value though boys and girls... just £62 a pop.