Stanfords Finest

I have this deep dark thought that I feel I need to share with some strangers and, as we are talking, then I will get it off my chest now. Feel free to deride me and call me all sorts of names. I can take it. Firstly, let me state, I am a Harry fan. I have the badge, the scarf and the official DVD. Harry Redknapp is made for Spurs and Spurs is made for Harry Redknapp – or should it say was. When he was first appointed I couldn’t think of a better choice – after a series of continental managers he was breath of straight talking English air. But today, this morning, after Wigan, the dark feelings that I felt in the summer, and periodically gnawed away at me last season, have become overwhelming. Let me try and illustrate what I am trying to say with some background. Firstly we all know Harry is as loyal as a certain Mr Sulzeer Jeremiah Campbell when it comes to switching sides. From Pompey to his ‘spiritual home’ of Southampton in the twitch of an eye is perhaps the most overt display of this loyalty in action but there have been others. Disloyalty (or wheeler dealing) is, of course, all part and parcel of the great Harry Redknapp aura – an aura that spellbinds players, supporters and the press alike and there is no doubting we writhe in ecstasy at all the ‘Del Boy’ shtick because Harry is a fantastic manager. For Spurs, at the time of his appointment, there was no better choice. We needed a straight talking scrapper. Someone to kick the lazy, spoilt, sloth-like players up the jacksy and get them playing again. Harry was the man. With a remarkable, almost eerie, channeling of football magic we were top half of the table and fighting on in the cups. The fine work continued last season but there were times when I was not sold and silly losses to the Wolves and the Stokes and the Hulls seemed undo all those great victories and sometimes, tactically we were left wanting especially when he chose to play Keane almost every game without fail. Of course we got fourth on the last day and that is not to be underestimated and is a huge achievement that, quite frankly, he should deliver based upon a) our squad and b) his salary. We never died and we kept scrapping until the glories of the Champions League are upon us for
the first time in its current, modern, form.
(more…)

Glenn ‘medieval village idiot’ Roeder has decided to the decent thing and kill himself, leaving the path wide open for Sam ‘Victorian Mill Owner’ Alladyce to step in and, once again promise another New Dawn.   Every season Newcastle supporters genuinely believe that this season is going to be The One and each season they get crushed under the feet of the Big Four leaving poor Jawdee folk scratching their heads, wondering where it all went wrong and coming up with their own Final Solution – Sack The Manager.   It’s the war cry of most supporters when things go wrong but for the Jawdees it’s all they know.  It’s their mantra.   Jawdees can never see past their own noses and maybe if, just if, they cast their dead eyes a bit higher they would see a board that appoints and sacks managers like contestants on a game show.   Even though the club chairman called all jawdee women ”dogs” and (correctly) stated that grown men buying the clubs overpriced replica kits were idiots, the jawdess are still demanding managerial blood rather than that of the puppet masters.   Don’t get me wrong, I love the Newcastle soap opera so I’m all for keeping the current incumbents just where they are and long may they continue to do so.   I predict that, after an initial patch of success, the Jawdees under Allardyce will again be playing dull, route one football, only this time not in front of half-a-dozen Bolton chavs but instead thousands of millions of over expectant, emotionally retarded jawdee folk that will demand, as soon as Fat Sam strides through the revolving door, that the win the Premiership, Champions League and the FA Cup,  and if, surprise surprise, he doesn’t then Sam Out.  Newcastle is the most deadly, and most common, variety of the Premiership deadly chalices, and we should enjoy Fat Sam next season before his inevitable tin tac and the making way for contestant number 23432 to step up and play Newcastle Manager.

Spain France. Good game but yet again Fat Clive Tyldesley ruined the match with his terrible verbal diarrhoea. “Yeah…it’s gone in boss” chuckled Fat Clive as a slow motion clip showing the French coach Domenech celebrating his teams second goal was being played. As the clock ticked down Fat Clive let us all know there was ten minutes left to play. And then there was a pause. And then he said “tense minutes” like it was a rhyme and there was some link or humour in this nonsense word play. Fat Clive does like a player getting hit in the family jewels and nothing makes his day more than trotting out the same old clichés when this happens;”…well he hasn’t been hit the head that’s for sure…” “ha ha ha…he’ll be alright…” ITV must think that Fat Clive cannot ruin our enjoyment of the game alone so they’ve given him David “likes a pro” Pleat as a sidekick affording some banter between these two vacuous nonces. An example of their work was so cringe-worthy my teeth feel out. As the second half started this:

Fat Clive: “tension rising”

David Pleat: “pace quickening”

Fat Clive: “exciting game”

Actual football highlights of the match was Vieira telling the odious Luis Aragones to shut it, Raul still being played despite being the worst Spanish player ever, Zidane scoring the third goal and Henry being shown to be the dirty cheat that he so palpably is by diving and face clutching and getting Puyol booked. Mind you Henry did get cunted off in the studio by El Tel and Ruud so it’s all good. In fact, the smug Spaniards being beaten was the only real highlight anyone needed to enjoy this game.

15 minutes until England kick off against Trinidad and Tobago. Being in Asia right now it is dark, late evening and relaxed. I imagine the boozers in London are packed and the country is in hysterics. Being away from the hype is a good thing. You can watch the match with clarity. I don’t need a copy of a World Cup guide free with every newspaper. I don’t get in depth analysis at half time because I’m watching the game and I know what has happened. I don’t need Ian Wright telling me Becks was "well wicked". Perhaps the very best thing about the coverage over here is the commentary i.e. none. Where did the cult of the commentator come from? Well, the radio obviously. Then TV was born and broadcasting was basic so I guess there still was a need. But now? Why do we need them? What commentary has become is a sideshow to the game. I don’t require polite chit chat during the quiet passages of plays. No need for an ironic stat or matey banter – I can get that down the pub. I require only very basic information, not humour or jokes or the constant and unrelenting barrage of meaningless facts, figures, clichés and banal observations that now accompany every match of any significance. What football coverage has become now is the equivalent of Terry Wogan and the Eurovision song contest.

All that is wrong with football coverage can be summed up in two words. Clive Tyldesley. This man is football TV cancer. A walking idiot machine he is capable of ruining any match with his Daily Mail sensibilities. I hate Clive and his deformed eyes. The man is true horror. Pure evil. He has been designed to ruin football and we stand by and let him. He is determined to shout his insincere rubbish over any major match in the hope that somehow he will become associated it. Clive is the kind of person 20 years ago who thought football was vulgar and working class. Now he is all over it. I hate all Football commentators but baby-faced Clive is by far the worst. My only hope is that the advent of Digital will allow us to turn him off forever and they crash and burn like DLT did at Radio 1 all those years ago. I can’t wait.