GARRY COOK…THAT LAST NAME IS ONE CONSONANT OFF ACCURACY

The term ‘football man’ might seem like some anachronistic comment uttered by flat-capped luddites who still believe that football should be played in hob-nail boots on mudbaths, but in all reality it merely refers to people who’s lives have been spent living and breathing the game. You could be a football man (or woman for that matter). I AM a football man. And the likes of Sir Alex Ferguson and Harry Redknapp, like them or not, are proper football men.

Garry Cook is not a football man. He is a sports marketing man, primarily a US-created sports marketing man, who over 12 years with Nike ran the ‘Jordan’ brand. Yet it is Garry Cook (along with Brian Marwood, who probably does count as a football man, just not a very good one) who decided that Mark Hughes (most certainly a proper football man) was not going to get ‘the job’ done at City.

The executive chairman of Manchester City came bounding in from Oregon, USA some three years ago at the behest of another personal favorite of mine, Thaksin Shinawatra. Call me old-fashioned, but when an accused human rights violator of that magnitude offers you a job, it should fill the head and heart with anxiety that such a total and utter bastard wants to employ you. Not Cook. He leapt at the chance (money/power). He wasn’t there too log before City tried (and failed) to sign Kaka, a failure which Cook loudly proclaimed was down to AC Milan ‘bottling it.’ A true diplomat who was already showing a lack of class.

So having watched Mark Hughes sign a few of the players he appeared to want (Barry, Given, Bellamy, Santa Cruz, De Jong), deal with a few of the players Cook and his Master wanted (Robinho, Tevez, Lescott, Adebayor) with a couple signed who it’s frankly hard to assign responsibility to (Bridge, SWP, Toure) and have to sell the one player he didn’t really want to (Dunne – who was apparently informed there would be no testimonial and who was not given the contract he felt his service deserved) we watched with a mixture of laughter and horror as Hughes went from pillar to post trying to get this lot working together whilst constantly hearing how he had the club’s undivided support. I’m sorry, when they started saying that you could almost see Agent Marwood reporting back to Cook and his Master on how many more days the incumbant should get.

Cook found he had dropped more than one of his bollocks on the floor after Roberto Mancini’s appointment, when the latter casually let slip that the job had been his for longer than the 48 hour ‘offer-and-interview’ period Cook had suggested. Indeed, the word was that Mark Hughes had been a dead-man walking for three matches. And then it just got worse, with Cook yesterday coughing up the wonderful little gem that there had already been some ‘contingencies’ put in place during the close-season. Remarkable really. Especially when Cook then tried to justify such corporate stench-soaked activities by pointing out that Sven Goran Eriksson was replaced in the same manner.
“I seem to recall Sven was still our manager but he knew he was being replaced before the last game of the season,” parped the corporate executioner, “Weren’t they identical circumstances to the way we went about executing our decision to appoint a new manager?”

Cook has obviously not heard the cliche ‘two wrongs don’t make a right.’ Just in case there’s any confusion, let us be clear. Sacking two managers by plotting their replacements behind their backs does not make the action acceptable. It merely amplifies what a disgustingly souless corporation Manchester City has become. And briefly, for those who have sought to draw comparison with Tottenham’s treatment of Martin Jol, whilst undeniably shabby in it’s execution, the fact remains that Jol twice looked at other jobs behind his then-employers backs (Newcastle and Ajax). And as for the Ramos departure, it was as much in the interests of the outgoing manager as the club, thus a mutually-agreed situation. To the best of my knowledge, Mark Hughes never looked beyond Eastlands.

These are testing times for football. Players appear to have more money and more power but less brains and less integrity, supporters have the patience of a crack addict and the attention span of gnats (or crack addict again come to think of it), and big-money cowboys mill around prodding and poking at potential cash cows to strap with their debts or their dreams. It is a time when however much we might personally dislike certain ones, ‘football men’ should be respected and celebrated. That means the Harry Redknapps, the Sir Alex Fergusons, the Martin O’Neil’s, the David Moyes, Arsene Wengers, and Steve Bruces of the world. For it is men like these who understand. And behind them are the likes of Randy Lerner, Niall Quinn and Bill Kenwright who have all shown if not the old-school ‘football men’ gene, the ability to comprehend what the game means to those who love it. How to behave. How to ‘expect’ in the face of investment.

Garry Cook doubtless gets paid a handsome sum of money to behave as he does. And as such, his well-cloaked, but surely inevitable, obsequiousness to Sheikh Mansour takes him four steps away from the fundamental world of football before he’s even had a chance to stretch. When the boss holds your money, power and balls in a hand that doesn’t really view the ‘property’ as much more than a hobby, then you’re in trouble. Unless, of course, you yourself are driven by other motivations beyond the football club you represent.

“Roberto has been caught up in a language issue,” Cook bleated to The Guardian yesterday. “In truth, he has been shafted.”
No. In truth, Mark Hughes was shafted. Shafted essentially by the hand of a non-football superstar sportswear executive with little knowledge of football, a man who could really do with swapping out one of the ‘O’s in ‘Cook’ for a ‘C’.

I give Roberto Mancini 18 months if he’s lucky. And Roberto? Between now and then I’d edge backwards out of boardrooms after meetings with Cook and co if I were you. I give him 18 months unless he brings Manchester City the crown jewels…

###

SEPP BLATTER…A UNIQUE TOOL OF HIS TIME…

Sepp Blatter, the President of FIFA (whatever that’s worth these days) is considering a special award for Ireland in the wake of the Thierry Henry handball fiasco during November’s World Cup playoff second-leg match in Paris. I’ve never been too sure what a boggled mind looks like, but thanks to Sepp, I feel I might now. What, pray tell, could Sepp come up with in terms of a ’special award’ to give the Irish some ‘moral compensation’ A small statue featuring a pair of hands shaking across a heart with the word ‘FRIENDS’? A leprechaun with it’s arms open wearing a t-shirt saying ‘Forgiveness is love?’ A gold-plated compass with Sepp’s smiling face at the northern point? Pathetic doesn’t even begin to cover the embarrassing journey Sepp and his backwards-only bicycle are taking. In fact, the Irish should now feel more insulted by this buffoon than ever. For having failed to show the necessary leadership in the moments after Henry hand-balled twice to hand the French their winning goal, he is now on a back-pedal mission so grotesque that it is actually making the Irish look smaller and smaller with his every word. What next we wonder? Will Sepp invite the Irish squad to the opening ceremony next summer? Perhaps to carry out some bright colored inflatable things, or maybe to even show the world the world cup trophy before handing it off to Charlize Theron? Maybe pick a couple of squad representatives could attend a press conference to discuss the importance of fair play and forgiveness before embracing Blatter in front of the world’s press and saying ‘all is forgiven.’ All expenses paid of course! You wouldn’t bet against it would you?

Yes indeed, in the pantheon of tools, Blatter is a giant spanner. Not only that, the man stands as strongly behind the concept of principle as a jello tower in Doha. Having overseen a frankly inexplicably skewed seeding process for the World Cup playoff matches, he then chose to react to the controversy by holding his chubby-fingered little hand up and pretty much saying ‘I don’t give a fuck because my fiancee, Michelle Platini’s happy and I’m not going to upset her as it will affect my chances of scoring later tonight.’ Just to reiterate, I am paraphrasing ever so slightly. And this is, of course, after he was actually found, because Blatter was conspicuously absent as the red-tops and sports shows went into frenetic overdrive. However once he realized this wasn’t going away and he couldn’t weasel out of commenting, as the incident became a YouTube hit, as Henry’s hand and forearm became God’s other one, Blatter appears to have looked down at his trousers and seen one of his bollocks falling towards the floor.

He was forced to eschew technology whilst pointing out the experiments taking place in this season’s Europa League (via Uefa, that is) with two extra officials, one behind each goal. He was then slowly forced to pass comment that there would be no replay despite various requests from the FAI and god knows who else. And then, he bizarrely revealed that the Irish had asked for a 33rd place at the finals next summer. The Irish retorted that they were insulted by Blatter’s admission, as it was meant to be a private request. Frankly, it’s such an absurd thing to ask for I’m not surprised the Irish were insulted, furthermore, perhaps the genius at the FAI who conjured that zinger should consider another line of work. With that being said, Blatter’s public comments on the matter were ridiculous, either completely lacking in the necessary nous to carefully manoeuvre around such a thing, or a calculated attempt to dump the Irish in the brown creek without a paddle. If the former, then I ask again, why is this buffoon in the job? And if the latter, then I ask again, why is this buffoon in the job? Because the only person who ended up in the smelly waters was Sepp himself, so spectacularly did he score a public own-goal.

Which has brought us to the ‘merit award’ and some hot-air about disciplining Henry. Now, I was absolutely outraged by Henry’s behavior, which to my mind superseded the ‘normal’ handball incident (Henry handballed it twice in the same move and then pretended it was all moving too fast to prevent the action). But the time to have acted was then. At that moment in time. While the iron was still hot, not now, weeks and weeks later with the flat metal surface as cool as cucumber. Instead, we have seen Blatter refuse to move any further with the true matters at hand (determining whether we take the path of extra officials or enlisting electronic aid) instead dragging this entire fiasco down a pathetically long path under the pretence of ‘justice.’

Listen. Don’t be fooled. Blatter is simply trying to remain popular, and is now dancing like a daisy in the wind. He, and by proxy FIFA, blew it big-time. And now, rather than heap further embarrassment on himself, Blatter should by all rights declare the matter closed.

Although in one sense I hope Sepp doesn’t. Because at the end of the day, I’m still intrigued as to what (exactly) ‘moral compensation’ is, and frankly, we have a right to know…

SANCTIMONY IN THE WORLD OF NU-FOOTBALL SHOCKER!

IT was a site to behold for the home supporters, yet one to infuriate the traveling away fans. The tall, lithe striker had just scored a wonderful goal, and having exalted briefly with his teamates, suddenly decided to take off on a sprint towards the away supporter section, launching himself into a knee slide, arms prostrated in a demi-God-of-strength pose, a picture of taut taunt and almost sublime arrogance which could’ve caused a riot.

Now I have no way of knowing if Emmanual Adebayor was watching Thierry Henry on the telly back on Saturday 16th November, 2002, but there can be little doubt that Adebayor’s sprint up the Eastland’s pitch to knee slide infront of the small section of traveling Arsenal supporters bore a remarkable similarity to the precedent-setting celebration of that Arsenal legend. The response to Henry’s actions that day were relatively muted. Nobody really cared. Henry had just scored a marvelous goal and hey, what’s a little crowd baiting between foes?

I remember being consumed with anger at the time, shedding more than a few colorful adjectives at the mercurial French superstar, but a week later all was gone, done and dusted. Spurs supporters moved on, without forgetting mind, Henry continued to get the so-called ‘dogs abuse’ and thus continued to ‘enjoy’ his goals as and when they were scored – fair cop really. But the point is that we moved on, we accepted that when you boo players, taunt them, abused them, then no-one can really complain when a professional footballer occasionally gives it back; is there anyone who didn’t in some way sympathize with Eric Cantona when he decided to fight back against some moron who thought he was above reaction? Likewise, as much as I despise what Sol Campbell did to Spurs, and as much as I booed and jeered him on his returns, would I have complained had he turned around and offered a salute post-goal, or worse still, a celebration? Not really.

The guy heard songs which basically wished AIDS upon him. And death. Via depression or lynching, and whatever your take on ‘that’ song might be, the overall feeling here is that it’s a shockingly poor song and clearly steps over a moral line. Would I ban people from singing it? No. Do I get all sanctimoniously incredulous when Campbell decides to try and take a stand about it? No. That’s how it goes. Fair is fair.

Adebayor has always been an odd combination of class and classless. He fought with his own team-mates and sulked a lot, at the same time agitating for a move away from Arsenal. This is not the place to pontificate on why that might be (although I will say that Robin Van Persie, himself not the best-behaved footballer the world has ever seen, might be a hard guy to play alongside) but the end result was an increasing cacophony of displeasure towards him from his own supporters as the season wore on. The end result? He was sold, for damn good money too.

Spurs supporters feel the same way about Dimitar Berbatov. Indeed, their last seasons read like a comparison chart which checks out as the same. And Berbatov gets his share of booing whenever he plays against us. That Berbatov chooses to celebrate with his own team is his (more mature) decision, but were he to look at us and raise a celebratory fist, well, that’s the way it goes right? You give it, you take it, right? Right.

I am not defending Emmanual Adebayor. He was foolish. Childish. Uncontrolled. But it is understandable given the circumstances. So when Arsenal fans rise in one bemused, bruised and hurt wave of cacophonous protest, perhaps they should consider a few things. Perhaps they should consider that singing songs about people’s parents (elephant washers and prostitutes as the words suggest, and a song I personally have always despised) is not the greatest way to show displeasure. Perhaps they should consider that the throwing of bananas/banana skins is the sort of pathetic, ignorant and blatantly racist behavior that probably DESERVES such a response. And perhaps they should consider the behavior of some former Arsenal legends when it comes to ‘taunting’ the opposition; the V-sign-infused sprint along the Old Trafford touchline in front of the Spurs half of the stadium by Lauren as he followed Viera when the former had equalized in the 2001 FA Cup semi-final. The clearly insane behavior of Keown and his fellow-men at Old Trafford when Van Nistelrooy has missed a penalty. And the graceful, lightning quick sprint of Thierry Henry on Saturday 16th November, 2002, one which took him in-front of the Spurs supporters. Add to this the often inflammatory behavior of players such as Van Persie, and it actually becomes a possible case that Adebayor learnt his ‘ways’ as a raw youth being taught the ropes by a club which capitalizes the ‘p’ in professionalism and has often walked the fine line of abhorrent behavior. Indeed, as terrible as Adebayor’s stamp was on Van Persie, consider the initial challenge, consider the reports of said-player refusing to shake Adebayor’s hand before the match, consider the photos of them looking as though they were speaking after the match, and consider Van Persie’s subsequent ’statement’ which sounded like a petulant, snot-nosed public school boy who lacks the courage and fortitude to deal with such things behind closed doors. In it’s own way, classless behavior from a player who’s no stranger to controversy.

You give it, you occasionally take it, you move on. Those are the rules. And if you can’t abide by them, then stay at home, sip your chardonnay and eat your prawn sandwiches in the recliner atop your axeminster and don’t bother ever abusing another footballer again. Indeed, were Arsenal’s bleating fan flock a little smarter (not to mention, wittier) they’d send Adebayor a fruit basket. His actions look set to cost him at least a three game suspension, perhaps more. And in the brutal world of the premiership, everyone, but Adebayor and Manchester City, will benefit from his absence.

KETCHUP ON THE MENU, GEEZERS IN THE HOUSE…

It has, by any stretch of the imagination, been quite a few weeks for Spurs. Prior to what can only be described as ‘the radical surgery’, it was impossible to see where the next goal, let alone point, was going to come from, and players made a mockery of the word ‘professional’ by showing less confidence than a one armed juggler. It was absolutely dire. Communication within the club seemed dead. And Spurs already had the shadow of a club on their way to the likes of Turf Moor next season.

Regardless of whether you think he’s responsible or not for what went wrong, chairman Daniel Levy made the sort of decision that requires balls the size of elephants; he sacked the manager, he sacked the coaches and he sacked the structure in place behind them. He cleaned house. And he brought in a man from whom the majority of Spurs supporters wouldn’t accept a free used car. Out with Juande, in wiv’ ‘Arry. Out with sophistication, in wiv’ a geezer. Out with the continental style, in wiv’ the ol’ knees-up ‘Ackney Marshes geddit it dun sun. And by proxy, for thousands of Spurs supporters, out with pre-conceived notions that ‘Arry Redknapp is the dodgiest man in football and in with the FACT that ‘Arry was exactly what we needed, is a messiah, is old-school genius and is the natural successor to Houdini. Football has always been a great place to find hypocracy, and I along with the aforementioned supporters can shamelessly tell you how brilliant the appointment of Redknapp has been despite mere months earlier wondering how much bird he might end up doing if the FA charges stuck.

Redknapp’s appointment coincided with the now-annual capitulation (albeit a little earlier than usual) of Arsene Wenger. Going on 5 seasons without silverware, Arsenal are once again displaying a curious inability to kill off games, or even win them, whenever the going’s a tiny bit tough. And by proxy, their manager continues his metamorphasis into Basil Fawlty with the sort of physical touchline gestures which reveal a petulant, spoilt and vulnerable child beneath the blue bench coat. It is, of course, everyone’s fault that Arsenal have stopped winning. People have been kicking them. Referees have been wronging them. And the players have been weak at vital moments. The manager, of course, remains blameless. His substitutions never come into question, his team selections are never open for debate. His choice of captain, Mary Gallas, remains untouchable, and his refusal to spend more than a few million at a time on necessary players has finally come home to haunt him; Mikel Silvestre, a Man Utd reject, will not bring solidity to your back-line.

‘Arry has brought with him the controversial Kevin Bond, ketchup back onto the canteen menu, and a coaching manual which sometimes totals ‘fucking run about out there’ amongst other things. But it is the language he speaks which has galvanized the first-team squad. To be fair, ‘Arry’s English is probably harder for the likes of Luka Modric to understand than Juande’s dialect, but this isn’t about vowels and consonants, it’s about verve and confidence. It’s about telling these highly-paid and highly-talented footballers that they’re actually pretty damn good. It’s about telling them that when they work together, they’re very very effective. And it’s about knowing who needs a hug and who needs a rollicking, who needs a reminder and who simply needs instruction. More than anything, it’s about imparting confidence IN THEM AS A TEAM. And as an ex-pro himself, ‘Arry knows how to do all of the above.

It is why players like David Bentley, previously struggling with the weight of expectation in foreign areas of the pitch, found themselves in a position to try the audacious and achieve it at the Emirates. His 40-yard goal had little to do with luck and everything to do with sublime skill and confidence; the amazing first touch will have informed that to any naysayers. It is why players like Modric are finally able to show their full range of talents, ‘Arry recognizing that you give players like this the ball in dangerous areas. It’s why forwards like Bent and Pavulychenko, previously rendered unplayable as a pair, combined sweetly in the final minute against Liverpool to fashion a cute and clever winning goal for the latter, though it took Bent’s persistence and pull-back to create the moment.

And the bounce-back through the entire club has been enormous. Everyone, from the trainers to the tea-lady, are ‘appy wiv’ ‘Arry’s vibe and personality. His bounce and his simplicity. His directness. His inclusion of everyone. Indeed, one of his first moves was to give squad numbers to the previously exiled likes of Ghaly, Taarabt, Stalteri and Kevin Prince-Boateng, something which not only lifted their spirits and that of their fellow team-mates, but made decent, logical practical use of players who the club are paying! Football is not a complicated game in this respect.

So when Aaron Lennon stabbed home a Luka Modric post-deflected re-bound in the 94th minute at the Emirates for Spurs 4th, and equalizing, goal, it was (on reflection) a triumph for simplicity and investment in the human spirit; ‘Arry had given them belief and ‘Arry got it back. And when Liverpool failed to bury Spurs in the first 70 minutes of last weekend’s match, everyone sensed that Spurs could (and would) snatch something. Because ‘Arry has remembered that however talented, however famous, however well-compensated, all you need is love. Which he gives each and every person he works with. And it is why this writer has found himself saying something he never, ever thought he’d day; that is that right here, right now, Harry Redknapp is the PERFECT manager for Tottenham Hotspur FC.

Long may it continue…

THE HORROR OF N17…A HALLOWEEN SPECIAL

And so it continues…Tottenham Hotspur’s nightmare season, a freefall the likes of which no-one anywhere expected, continues apace. Today’s 2-0 defeat at Udinese further underscored the central issue which has caused this situation, namely the lack of a proper forward. Darren Bent fooled this writer with a glowing pre-season, but said-scribe should’ve reverted to the skepticism he’s always held with regards to the player’s ability to play in more than one system. Because the proof has come that he cannot. Indeed, asking Bent to make creative runs, to drop deep and drag defenders out of position or to use his body like a classic hold-up centre-forward is futile. He cannot. It is the starting point of our problems, that and the loss of  (on average) 65-70 goals a season during both transfer windows of 2008.

 

The midfield has thus had it’s metaphoric balls chopped off by this rather large problem (along with having no natural enforcer/holding player), most notably because there isn’t a striking brain cell to be found in front of them. Which forces them sideways. Which makes us the easiest team in football to defend.

 

Once Modric was on the field, he again showed that Tottenham have the midfield ability to service any strikers who are prepared to work and who have some dimension to their game. And when Bent was given a golden chance to stick the ball home from 7 yards out thanks to a wonderful cross from Dos Santos, he contrived to ball-watch a split second too long, and rather than using a striker’s initiative to attack the chance, he instead waited for it to come to him. You know what happened next. Nothing.  Later on, just before Udinese’s breakaway second, he planted a strong header goalwards right at the keeper.

 

O’Hara saw red after two correct yellow card decisions for rash challenges, whilst Jenas blotted a copybook which had been filled with effort by unforgivably contriving to stop running to the goaline and thus fail to clear the second Udinese goal off the line before it trickled in off a post. He thought it had already gone in. Players like Owen Hargreaves or Frank Lampard don’t.

 

It is obvious that Daniel Levy’s transfer policy this summer messed things up drastically. That has been broken down already in this column. No, what now needs to happen at Tottenham is a miracle to arrest the freefall. And that miracle has to happen inside every single player and club employee.

 

It starts with simple stuff. What more can be done with regards to the blame game? This is what they’re stuck with until January, and by God, that is what will have to scratch out 20 points minimum before the club can buy a few strikers if they want to have any real chance of surviving. So it’s really time that everyone made sure they’re giving 100%. From the tea lady to the tacticians, from the programme sellers to the players, EVERYONE needs to pull together and give everything…of course, that’s the problem. Trusting that they can and trusting that they will. AND wondering if they trust EACH OTHER to work out of this mess. David Bentley’s Spurs career hasn’t amplified hopes of such things  (it hasn’t helped his cause that he’s drastically under-performed thus far) Woodgate’s comments post-Udinese weren’t hopeful, and Juande’s cryptic clues didn’t exactly offer a bucket-load of inspiration.

 

Perhaps the saddest thing about it all, is that nobody seems to know when the point will turn anymore. Something you teach your children is that however bad a situation gets, it will end. In the case of Spurs, no parent could say that with any degree of conviction, because the freefall appears so thoroughly entrenched.

 

It is going to take a special act, no, a special SERIES of acts, to save Spurs from slipping into the abyss. And as people go round and round trying to detail the exact reason it’s all gone so horribly tits up, the truth appears to be that there is no one specific reason more than there’s multiple contributing factors.

Yes, getting rid of people and buying safe passage would be nice, but it can’t happen (as mentioned) until January 1^st 2009.

 By which time everyone will know if Spurs managed to sort it out or if they’re heading towards the championship…the optimist will always say that they’ll have proven themselves too good to go down by then, and the realists might not be invited just yet!

JOE KINNEAR…A HERO ONCE MORE!!!

When Newcastle Dis-United announced that they had dragged Joe Kinnear from suburban convalescence to sit in the hot-seat equivalent of a Mexican jumping bean for a whole 6 weeks if-lucky, the laughter rang out  from Tyneside to Tennessee. It was reasonable to assume that Kinnear’s doctor might have been the reason behind Joe taking the ‘job’, as working with Newcastle right now’s a sure-fire way to test your ticker, but truth be told, it likely had much more to do with the Dennis Wise connection than health. Oh, and also perhaps the challenge; Kinnear’s never been one to hide after all. But there was no mistaking the message this appointment sent-out; desperate. And behind the times. And even a little bit silly? Given the names being touted (Guus Hiddink for example), by the sheer misfortune of proxy, Joe Kinnear’s name was always going to be a let-down. Obviously, the press had a field day, especially when it transpired that Joe’s first day at Sid James Park clashed with a scheduled day off for the players. The unofficial argument amongst press and public was that they’d already had enough days off on Saturdays, Sundays and Wednesdays, but no matter, pundits queued up to state that it was Kinnear’s fault, etc, etc. It was, in fact, a bit of an open season on the man. Ridiculed for a ridiculous job that he hadn’t even had five minutes to try and do. Thinking about it in those terms, we’re all guilty as charged.

Modern decorum dictates that unless you’re one of the big 4 managers, you keep your counsel and tread gingerly with the press, occasionally making sure to show you have a pair of testicles, but not in a particularly challenging or offensive way. Indeed, most managers try and butter up a journo or two so as they can do things like spread rumors, tap-up players and have a friendly word on their side if the proverbial ‘form’ hits the fan.

So when Joe Kinnear held his first official press conference yesterday, everyone could’ve been forgiven for expecting the usual empty rhetoric that wafts through the air like stale wind from a chili cook-off. What they didn’t expect was an introduction like this (all quotes come courtesy of The Guardian).

Joe Kinnear: Which one is Simon Bird (the Daily Mirror’s North-East football writer).

SB: Me.

JK: You’re a cunt.

SB: Thank you.*

A stunningly unfriendly and politically incorrect entrance, and one certainly not designed to have the snarling Fleet St mob covering your back when everything’s going to ruin. Of course, Kinnear realizes that it’s already pretty absurdly awful at Newcastle and that the phrase ‘on a hiding to nothing’ is becoming the new management motto, engraved as it is on the revolving incumbent’s office chair. What he did not realize was that in the nu- Premiership, in it’s rarefied air, you’re guilty and have to prove yourself innocent. Since Joe took a bunch of ragamuffin geezers called Wimbledon on the sort of carpet ride that Hollywood makes movies about, things have changed. And since he suffered a heart attack and subsequently had to go into semi-retirement, the behind-scenes politics have changed too. Managers? Only part of the equation. It’s as much about owners and chairman and PR value in the nu-Premiership.

So when Joe Kinnear called one of his perceived-smarmy detractors a ‘cunt’ within the first few minutes of his first official press conference, the air turned so unbelievably fresh that most of the journos in there nearly choked on the cleanliness. In one fell-swoop, Kinnear had decided to abandon protocol, to abandon the rules and to not only defend himself against criticism for a job he hadn’t started doing, but defend himself against the hoardes of mindless, clueless idiots in Fleet St who make a living peddling rumors that they leech from message boards and gossip moles.

Kinnear was, as must be clear, only getting warmed up. During the rest of the conference he told the assembled (both generally and sometimes specifically) that they were ‘fucking out of order’, that he was being ridiculed for no reason, that the press were doing it simply because they enjoyed the position Newcastle was in and that he had had enough. 

After rolling around with laughter at the sheer brazeness of Kinnear’s behavior, it’s very, very hard not to find a new, deeper respect for the man. Not because he got sweary, of course not, but because Joe Kinnear stood up for himself and his new club in the face of the usual, smarmy, two-faced smirk-handed Fleet St onslaught. He decided he’d had enough. He decided he wasn’t going to take it anymore. And he said exactly what he needed to say. In JFG’s book, this is nothing short of heroic, a proper stand against an increasingly large pack of unscrupulous bottom-feeders. Who can be sure what The Guardian’s motives are in printing an edited transcript of this nature, but if it was to further ridicule Kinnear, then it might well have back-fired. Because football is political but it ISN’T politics. Managers don’t have to adhere to fear-induced soft-shoe shuffles. Managers don’t have to concern themselves with behaving obsequiously towards the media they don’t wish to. And in the case of a Newcastle manager, it really isn’t worth the ‘politically-correct’ hassle. The liklihood is that Joe Kinnear does not have long left in a job he’s only just begun. New buyers will come in and pick their own manager. Which means even more that Joe Kinnear does not deserve the ridicule he got from everyone. JFG enjoys a good laugh at the expense of foolish work like the best of them, but the FACT remains that Joe Kinnear had not even had a chance to START the job before the journos were wading in to give him a good kick in. Kudos to him for having the brazen courage to say it EXACTLY as he felt it. Because at least the man will be able to look himself in the mirror and realize that he did not let a group of cheap, unscrupulous bastards drag him from pillar to post in their cowardly quest to ridicule yet another pawn in the nu-Premiership game. Perhaps the next time they consider arrogantly riding rough-shod over someone, they’ll now think twice.

 

*For the entire transcript, go to  http://www.guardian.co.uk/football/2008/oct/03/newcastleunited.premierleague

WHEN A MISTAKE IS NOT A MISTAKE ANYMORE…

TOTTENHAM Hotspur supporters the world over rejoiced at Spurs finally finding their feet during one of the most turgid football matches ever at St.James Park in the Carling Cup. After slack displays infused with inner-turmoil and confidence-shorn, tentative steps suggesting a fear of grass and balls, watching them grit their way to a move which resulted in the sort of fluid, counter-attacking goal that Spurs have scored for fun in recent seasons was an enormous relief. And what a difference a small burst of confidence makes, as from that point on Spurs comfortably controlled the match, kept possession with supreme ability and could’ve scored a couple more than the two they ended up with in the 2-1 defeat of hapless Newcastle.

That Spurs are in their horrific position right now can be attributed to many things, but this writer will lay 95% of the blame squarely on the chairman Daniel Levy’s shoulders. It is imperative that a manager be given the tools he wants, and in a timely fashion, so as he can both read the instruction manuals and learn how to incorporate them into the shop already running. Aside from this simple premise, add the fact that as you strengthen the squad in areas identified by said- manager, you really should not be weakening it. And bluntly, when push came to shove, Daniel Levy failed. He might’ve got away with predominant tea and sympathy (especially with regards to the protracted sale of Berbatov)   had he not also so readily capitulated to the sudden complaints of honorary scouser (and former Spurs vice-captain/mouth-piece/joker/heartbeat Robbie Keane). Some will say that Ramos must’ve sanctioned the sale, told Levy to grab the 20 mill from Liverpool before it went away, but for that to have happened you can be damn sure that Ramos gave the board a list of strikers to put in place first. 

Which he did. Arshavin was there, so was Gabriel Milito, so was Sergio Garcia. Indeed, in the case of Milito, the name had first arisen last Spring. You thus have to wonder why NONE of them ended up at Spurs during the transfer window, why instead supporters were treated to the cryptic and woefully inept ‘hands-in-the-air-we-did-all-we-could-guv’ rubbish that was ‘we had two forwards lined up and ready but agents scuppered the deal at the last minute.’ (That also goes for the ‘targets’ lined up to fulfil Ramos’ requests for a left-winger and a proper holding midfielder.) Oh really? What about that whole notion of giving the manager what he wants at the START of the close-season, or at least a couple of weeks BEFORE the season starts?

Here’s what JFG reckons happened. Levy felt he could ride these ‘deals’ to the brink, to the final days and hours of the window, in order to make sure that the main priority (shareholders) were served as well as possible. After all, a price is a price is a price, and no sucker wants to pay the sticker fee, thus one of Levy’s more favored games over the years (brinksmanship) was deployed with fervor and resolve. The problem was that with the world and it’s Mum having seen Spurs get 20 million for Keane, the prospective sellers looked at Levy and collectively mouthed ‘you cannot have your cake and eat it.’ Which is actually rather fair. If you’re going to put up such little resistance in taking 20 mill for arguably the most important member of your squad (ESPECIALLY when you know that you will capitulate on selling his strike partner who has been agitating for a move since he signed) then it is absurd to expect others to willingly let go of their top assets without an equally large wedge of wonga. And when it comes to terms of payment, as it reportedly did with Arshavin, then it benefits the club to sort out their position quickly and diplomatically. Because nobody will ever convince JFG that Levy didn’t believe he could tell Zenit St Petersberg where to stick their renegotiation in the full belief that he could waltz back in on deadline day, up the ante and do the deed. ALL of which STILL means that the manager, Juande Ramos, spent the close season training a squad that was one fine Harrods ham sandwich short of a picnic. Great silverware, wonderful crockery, superb hors d’ouvres but lacking the final main-meal strike-force in the sort of abundance that it once had.

Levy will doubtless point to the fact that Spurs spent over 60 million in the transfer window, but JFG will equally point out that the in-comings actually meant that Spurs were exceedingly close the being ‘in the black’ on transfer dealings, an extraordinary thing considering there was reportedly a budget of some 25 mill before the Berbacash was even contemplated.

And so it has been that Spurs have been stuck with a young, talented, disconnected and bewildered side, one bristling with talent but bursting with naive insecurity, the sort that renders expression on the field dead and instead sees fearful rigormortis set in to every move. Thus when Pavulychenko dropped deep, won the ball, distributed, turned, ran back into the box and got his head on the end of an excellent Aaron Lennon delivery, you could hear the relief back in N17. The side is too good, and the manager too smart, for thing to get any worse, and for sure Spurs season will now inch back to some degree of normalcy and perhaps even potential. But it will be in spite of, and not because of, the board. The chairman. The money men.

JFG gave Levy the benefit of the doubt for the entire window. When other more seasoned and grizzly commentators were criticizing his dealings, JFG insisted that until the morning of Sept 2nd Levy should escape judgement, that perhaps he had learned his lesson, that perhaps we were about to keep our prized asset and copy other ‘big’ clubs who refused to sell, or that we already had the replacements signed up. Admittedly, JFG had conveniently ignored the ‘timely’ aspect of this, instead really wanted to give Levy the full benefit of the doubt. But then came the morning of Sept 2nd. And whilst JFG doesn’t doubt for one moment that Daniel Levy feels some of the Spurs supporters pain, when a man shows the same hand, when a man repeatedly plays the same poker, when a man keeps making the same mistakes at the same times in the same fashion, you have to stop calling them mistakes…

THE ‘B’ MAN WITH TRUE CLASS…

Dimitar Berbatov’s reprehensible behavior has been well-documented. This shoddy excuse of a professional has recently admitted he spent the last month of his Tottenham career with his head buried up the M6 (among other places closer to home) and though his talent is absolutely beyond doubt, his level of professional class has surely been compromised to such a degree that only the most die-hard Man Utd supporter could look at him with any degree of respect. Berbatov might well be three times as skillful as Fulham’s Jimmy Bullard, but it doubtful whether he could ever hope to achieve even half the respect of his fellow professionals, and the football-watching public in general, that Bullard regularly receives. 

Mention Jimmy Bullard’s name to anyone who knows anything about British football, and the liklihood is that you will receive a ‘top bloke’, ‘great battler’, ‘brilliant with set-pieces’ ‘a great laugh’ sort of comment. Rare is the moment he doesn’t smile it appears, and even rarer are the moments where he behaves like most others in his profession (spoilt, rude, disrespectful). Because Jimmy Bullard is the classic layman-to-professional success story, a man who worked hard, got his chances and took them. The road has not been easy. Aside from ploughing through the non-leagues and feverishly scrapping to make it as professional in the first place, in Sept 2006 he suffered a dislocated knee as well as cruciate ligament damage. Two years later, and Jimmy Bullard is England boss Fabio Capello’s choice for a new midfield face in the squad for the upcoming World Cup qualifiers.

To a person, when news of Bullard’s 06 injury filtered through, everyone said the same thing; great guy, great character, always smiling, always seems so happy, really decent ‘engine room’ midfielder, brilliant free-kick taker, hope he comes back stronger. Because at the time, there was a little doubt as to whether he even COULD come back so bad was the injury. But from the get-go he was determined. And determined to remain upbeat. Witness a quote given to The Independent about his first meeting with renowned US surgeon Dr.Richard Steadman.

“When I first saw Steady, he told me my knee wasn’t in great shape. I asked him if he could get me back playing again he said ‘yes’. As a player that’s great and what you want to hear when your knee is wrapped round your neck!”

And he worked his way through 16 months of drudgery, rehabilitation and (ultimately) successful recovery. For a man who’s sole ambition when he was a painter and decorator was to make a living playing football, his return for Fulham last season would’ve been about the biggest dream achievable. That he should play such an important part in their premiership survival is no surprise. And when everything is considered, that Jimmy Bullard should get an England call-up should be no surprise either. It’s merited. But we all know how many managers tend to ignore the less glamorous (Bolton’s Kevin Nolan should’ve been in the 2006 World Cup squad for example) in favor of the more ‘glamorous’ names, so let’s give some credit to Capello here too. He has allowed himself to judge players on merit and merit only. On what he SEES. And thinking about it, if any of us had been in this country for approximately a year watching Jimmy Bullard, it would be hard work not picking him for England. His qualities are that clear. And his qualities are ones that none of England’s current incumbents can boast.

So good luck Jimmy, or should that say, the Best of British to you son!

 

FERGIE’S FAULT? BLAME SCUDAMORE

Sir Alex Ferguson, and Manchester United’s, behavior in the Dimitar Berbatov transfer has been reprehensible. There’s no doubt that rules were broken in the most egregious of ways, and that if it’s possible to also flagrantly take the mickey whilst breaking a rule, then that has most certainly been done on multiple occasions during this most protracted a dirty of deals. However to BLAME Ferguson for what took place is wrong. 

If there is a manager in football who loves his club more, or who is prepared to do what it takes as much as Ferguson then this writer has yet to see them. And how poor was it that the curmudgeonly Scot seized upon one of the most absurd misunderstanding in football transfer history (namely that Berbatov was given permission to go to Manchester and talk, but with CITY not United, however this was apparently NOT clarified by Spurs) and rushed to personally pick Berbatov up from the airport and give him the tour? Not very when all’s considered. The best analogy would be to ask whether you should blame the 7 year old child who repeatedly steals from the corner-shop whenever the shopkeeper isn’t looking, or the parents who know what’s going on yet refuse to take proper disciplinary action.

No, the real blame here lies with one of football’s most spineless characters ever, Peter Scudamore, the Premier League chief and, in this case, parent of the child involved. If Scudamore had a clue or a  pair, Fergie would’ve been carpeted a long long time ago for his behavior, and Man Utd docked some points and levied with some serious fines. Instead, and despite repeated proof of nefarious ways and methods in player recruitment, Scudamore has basically given them a free pass. In fact, throw this in with his ridiculous ‘39th game’ rubbish, plus the Man City affair (which appears to remain a completely unchecked invitation for criminals and con-merchants to come on in and destroy the balance of football), and it appears increasingly strange to this bystander why he remains in his job. Because if he stays where he is, allowing the likes of Fergie to take advantage of a system that has no intention of punishing them, then Peter Scudamore is surely being allowed to oversee the destruction of football as we know it. And that would be nothing short of a disgrace.

THE DELICATE MIND OF THE MODERN ‘EMPLOYEE’…*

THURSDAY, AUGUST 21st, 2008

After a Wednesday spent scoring two goals for your country, celebrated with a bit of badge-snogging for good measure, you take a flight home the following afternoon. It’s been a little tiring, you know, 90 minutes representing your country, but the pair of goals, subsequent adulation and the 5-star bed you finally fell asleep in certainly help with recovery. 

You prepare to catch your flight back to England, where your day-job is. A spot of 5-star breakfast perhaps, a ciggy and the paper maybe, perhaps even a squirrel or two to feed from your hotel room balcony if you’re lucky. You might check your bank balance, but more likely you won’t, because doubtless there are people in place to do that for you. And anyway, how many zeros to the left of the decimal point do you need before you know the quids really are in? Even you cannot have allowed it to go from 7 to 6 in the last 2 seasons. So it’s OK, life is still tolerable in a financial sense.

Your mood is perhaps a little low. Funny really. Two goals, a national hero, a comfortable existence, yet somehow, your spirit just feels a little deflated. You have people working for you who can help with that sort of stuff, but they’re not being overly helpful either. Because even though you have the sort of job in England that most people in your profession would die for, even though this job pays you enough to keep seven zeros-plus to the left of the decimal point, and even though this job comes with a staff and team which are largely designed to help you and your very special skills shine, there’s whispers of another job. Where there might be even more zeros to the left of the decimal, and perhaps more tangible rewards to be gained. And even though you signed a contract with your current employer, you sort of want to go to that other job now. 

A completely random image which has nothing to do with this column’s subject…

 

But it’s so terribly tough. How on earth can it happen? Your contract is binding and the people who have offered you a new job (via representatives of course) don’t actually want to pay the rate of compensation your skill set and current contract requires. How horrible! How beastly! How sad! You take another puff of your morning ciggy, comb back your hair and look deep into your own, soulful, moody deep blue eyes. You dig out a pair of Dolce & Gabanna sunglasses for fear that the sadness in your eyes might be seen by another British reporter, you sigh with a deep breath and you head for the airport.

En route, your representative calls you. He suggests that parties close to those who are offering the new job have suggested that perhaps your poor mind isn’t in the right place. ‘Take a sick-day’ is the advice, call in on Saturday with a health issue. Problem is, your energy levels were there for all to see yesterday, and your enthusiastic celebration was not that of a man with troubles on his mind. ‘No no, this is all about stress and the right-frame of mind’ you’re told, ‘it’s obvious that you cannot even contemplate attempting your work on Saturday with your mind where it currently is, so you must simply pull a sickie.’

A sickie, you think…what is this ’sickie’? A free day? Is it like bunking off from school?

‘Yes yes, something like that, but don’t worry because they can’t do anything about it, they’re scared and confused right now and aren’t sure how to handle this situation. And if you up the ante by doing this, it could push them to let you go to the new job where there will be more zeros to the left of the decimal point WITHOUT losing any of the zeros to the left of the decimal point you would be due from your current job! It’s a ‘health’ matter, right?’

Right, you think. It is. In fact, you feel frail and weak even thinking about it all right now…please, please God, you just want to do my job and go home and feed my squirrels! You just want it all to be easy and simple like it used to be. You just want no pressure and for everyone to appreciate my talents and let me take them where I want to take them. Why can’t everyone just be reasonable and let you do what you want to do when you want to do it?

So actually, sod this. You WILL take the advice of ‘them’ and you WILL pull a ’sickie’ and you WON’T show up for work on Saturday. You won’t lie and say you have a strain, you’ll just be honest and tell them that mentally-speaking, you couldn’t do your job properly at that time so it’s best for you not to show up at all.

And then hey, hopefully they will understand that unless they let you do what you want when you want to, that you might have these sorts of ‘issues’ often, and that you cannot guarantee you will ever be able to do your current job properly (at least not until you know the other job offer becomes legally suspended for 6 months, starting September 2nd). And you are very sorry if it seems selfish or rude or inconsiderate or even illegal given the fact you signed a contract, you cannot help that, it’s how you feel, and as a man with immense talents and skills surely everyone should be able to understand that when your ‘dream’ stage presents itself, you should be allowed to go. After all, you gave one and a half years of great service in the last two working years (yes, you know, August/September/October are always mentally delicate months for you and it’s such a shame those clash with the start of your day-job’s annual calendar) so it’s not like you haven’t shown extreme and enormous loyalty?!

Anyhow, you’ll clock in tomorrow morning if only to try and protect your zeros to the left of the decimal point, but as for the sickie? Well, you can only ‘pull a sickie’ on the day you don’t want to work, or that’s what you’ve been told…so tomorrow you’ll just be your usual, quiet self. And on Saturday, after an unusually pleasant and rare morning at home feeding the little furry friends, you’ll call the boss…

 

* This is a fictional account. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. However, for the record, Jumpers For Goalposts believes whoever this ‘employees’ boss is should stick firm, hold out, draft the replacement employees in and refuse to release the ‘delicate’ one to his desired ‘dream’ destination until May 2009. Of course, utopian actions like this are the stuff of fans and fantasists. The reality is that employees like this and the dirty, fetid-yet-smooth operators around them, are not new to such games. They don’t care about their public sponsors, and they don’t care about the impact their behavior has on vast communities. Their methodology has always lacked a moral compass, and to assume any different is almost endearingly naive. And so we are left with a vicious, dirty little war, played out in extreme passive-aggression, where only the biggest bastards win and where the hero depends on who your chosen bastard is. 

It’s really, really sad…

BENT AND CRIMINAL OWNERS…

Ronaldo aside, Tottenham Hotspur have dominated the summer transfer news. Between the actual signings and the ‘will-he won’t he’s’ of incomings and outgoings, it’s been drama as usual at the Lane, and amidst the flurry of media rubbish, many have missed what the coaching staff have managed to do this summer in preparing what looks to be a fine squad, albeit in need of two to three more bodies.

But the greatest success in pre-season is somewhat of a forgotten (and in some quarters much-maligned) man. Darren Bent joined Spurs last summer for 17 million quid, a figure some felt was grotesque as well as a figure which some say is inaccurate, the total being made up after the usual appearances vs success ratio. It was a tough first Spurs season for Bent. He spent much of it nursing an injury, and often came on as a sub whilst carrying the complaint. He was asked to replicate a style of football which clearly did not play to his strengths. And his confidence seemed to hit a couple of horrifically low-points during the season, when certain misses seemed to drain the blood from him on the spot. 

But Darren Bent never once complained. He never once agitated for a move. He never once spread disharmony through the ranks. He never once used the media as a soapbox for his frustration. He never allowed his relative bad luck to affect him (the man must’ve hit the woodwork about 6 times). He put his head down, sucked it up and simply tried harder. And harder. And harder. Often he appeared to be charging about without a clue as to where he was trying to go, and more often still he got dirty looks from whichever of his more illustrious (former in one case) strike partners he was with, whether it be Liverpool’s new squad rotation left-winger Robert Keane or the Incredible Sulk Dimitar Berbatov.

But Darren Bent never gave in. Never took the easy option. And never every besmirched the club.

A rare thing in modern football…the professional who doesn’t moan

Yet as the big kick-off approaches, we find Darren Bent as the starting striker alongside a.n.other. Why? Because the man has been banging them in for fun during the pre-season. 13 goals. Left foot, right foot, headers, tap-ins, all sorts of finishes and all sorts of confidence flooding back for him. In fact were he any other player, Spurs supporters would be lauding him loudly right now. But for some reason, there’s simply been quiet appreciation. No more, no less. The man has done everything right off the pitch since he first pulled on the white shirt, and now it appears he is set to do everything right on it. 

It’s about time footballers like Darren Bent were given a little more recognition, especially when juxtaposed against some of the more indolent narcissists we’ve had to suffer during this transfer window.

 

…AND HERE’S THE CRIMINAL OWNER

Regular readers will already know how I feel about Thaksin Shinawatra. No amount of free Thai food could’ve brainswashed me into believing he was a fit and decent owner. You know what they, once a despot, always a despot. And the little guy is about as despoty a despot as you can find. The recent news that Thaksin has officially become a fugitive for refusing to return and face a trial Thailand is unsurprising; it was always a case of ‘when’ not ‘if’. But the surprise etched on new manager Mark Hughes’ face as he watched the board nearly sell two players without his knowledge was really something to behold.

An interesting hiding place, but the Thai authorities will get him in the end…

I take Mark Hughes to be an intelligent man, thus if someone is going to try and claim that he didn’t believe he was walking into a potential tsunami when he agreed to take the manager’s job, I will claim that they are either a liar, friend or family member of Hughes. I mean, is Hughes simply in Manchester so as he can time his defection to Ferguson & co from a more convenient locale? What possible motivatio could he have had to take over City with their current state of ownership (especially having seen what happened to his predecessor -the clever bastard that is Sven!- at the end of the season)? And again, when Amnesty International are banging on about a specific person’s to treat people nicely, then the penny must drop. Right? RIGHT? It’s all so pathetic. The trouble, the posturing by Hughes, all of it, absolutely pathetic…let’s be clear. Hughes will be off by January 09 at the very latest, City will be in ENORMOUS trouble by the end of this season, and Thaksin will dump his plaything/attempted cover from criminal prosecution faster than a leper losing an arm during a hurricane once he realizes that he could end up in hot  water there too.

In fact, the only people Thaksin won’t have to worry about, are the Premier League and the FA. Neither will find any fault with his abilities and credentials as an owner (the FA have no direct say but, well, only the naive would suggest they wouldn’t have some influence over such a proceeding). And as for expecting Richard Scudamore and his pals at the Prem to have a pair of testicles between them, well, sorry to disappoint, but once again think ‘Eunuch’s convention’. Why? Because Man.City aren’t Luton Town or AFCBournmouth or Rotherham.

While we’re here, a quick final question. Will Portsmouth now face a 10 point deduction for irregularities with an agent (WIllie McKay and the transfer activity of Benjani)? Or even a 5 point one? Or even a 2 point one? A one point one and a fine?  After all, Portsmouth aren’t quite of the City stature or even West Ham’s come to think of it, so perhaps they could be the convenient scapegoat? Harry’s getting old, perhaps his fight is leaving him, could be worth a punt? Don’t even think of holding your breath…

Finally, lovely to see the North London banter is starting to pick up again from the actual players. First off the mark was new Spur David Bentley, who gleefully elaborated on just why it will be so exciting for him to play in the Lilywhite shirt at the Emirates Stadium near the end of October, and inviting supporters of his former employees to give him stick. Retorting with something of a weak, lily-livered swing back was Robin Van Persie, who commented that Twente Enschede, Arsenal’s opposition in their Champions League qualifier this week, were the ‘Spurs’ of Dutch football. Still, nice of him to comment at all as it does guarantee an enormous amount of abuse will be hurled his way during the same fixture. One wonders if he’ll remain fit long enough to ever enjoy an entire North London derby ever again. But ’tis marvelous stuff and a thoroughly entertaining way to sign off the last week before all the action starts in earnest…that is unless you count the superb Steve McClaren interview doing the youtube rounds at the moment, where Enschede manager Macca delivers a corkingly crap ‘Dutchman-speaking-English’ accent. What was he thinking? Ever!