famous on football365

April 17, 2007

I’m famous. Second letter down…


Not Loving The Boy ronaldo

“Imagine the stage. Imagine the grin. Imagine the £50,000 earring twinkling in his earlobe. Imagine the wink.

“And the PFA Player of Year is…” (five-minute delay for suspense)…cristiano ronaldo.”

Imagine how millions of kids picking up footballs across the country will walk onto the park with their 7 – RONALDO shirts.

Imagine how they will get within shooting distance, prepare themselves for the effort, think about it and then hurl themselves to the ground as soon as someone comes within breathing distance, arching their backs and exaggerating the effort. Then they’ll run up to the referee shouting in their loudest voice and swearing in his face…Oh, no, sorry, that’s Rooney. Well, never mind, he’ll be young player of the year.

Does anyone else consider it wrong that we reward cheating, whinging moaners? Players with no honour, no concept of sportsmanship.

I do. I think we should reward people who play the game in the right way. The ones that don’t go to ground at every opportunity, for example.

Yes, team’s have divers. Some though, are considerably worse than others. Just because everyone else does it, doesn’t make it right.

I remember watching ronaldo this year. Everyone had told me how he straightened out, was staying on his feet this year. I then saw the guy go down and win a penalty. I thought to myself, ‘no, this is the new ronaldo. Apparently.’ When I got home, what did I see?

A huge great whopping, swan-arch back, as if the grass had turned into a swimming pool.

Sometimes it’s worth making a point.

What a load of bollocks. It’s exactly what the PFA are always missing. Balls. The worst thing of it all? He doesn’t even need to do it, he chooses to. He chooses to go down.”




fitness needed. urgently.

January 18, 2007

Well. I said I would maybe not write about it again, but I feel obliged.

Dynamo Chicken Kiev suffered an honourable 4-1 defeat on Tuesday, in the Thurrock Premier 6-a-side league. We lost to the Thurrock Falcons who pretty much dominated us all game.

We’re now hovering dangerously above the relegation zone in tenth which, let’s be fair, is pretty crap. But I’m not really demoralised – they were just miles fitter than us. And my mate Decanus took over a team mid-season, that had already lost a whole bunch of games. They didn’t half whinge though, arguing every decision, it was like watching Chavski play or something.

We did score one lovely goal but if it hadn’t been for one left-footed bloke (with the least accurate shooting I’ve ever seen) hogging the ball from his team-mates they probably would’ve won by a lot more. Half the time I was reduced to just looking up to the heavens as another pass was misplaced. Oh well.

Myself though, I think I did pretty good. It was a huge pitch and I did some hardcore sprinting and runnning – especially in the first half. My passing was ok, I didn’t bottle a tackle but I did again realise just how crap a sprinter I am.

I lasted about 20-odd minutes before I let the sub take my place though. Had a beer on the touchline for the last five mins or so – I couldn’t be bothered to go back on.

I was expecting pain over the next couple of days too. I felt fine yesterday but am now starting to feel the pull on the muscles.  Think that’s ’cause I did a load of walking going over Tottenham yesterday. Maybe it’s time to get fit…

…or not. I’m not a particularly driven person sport-wise. We’ll see.


my mate decanus…

January 16, 2007

my mate decanus…is very excited about the football today. After a lengthy abscene from the game, I – accompanied by my good friend the Doctor – will be making my debut for his team.

Dynamo Chicken Kiev (I’m 70% sure that’s the name but I can’t remember exactly), I think they’re called are currently mid-table in the local six-a-side league after taking over another team’s position in the league mid-season.

Decanus, my friend, is this man on the right –>>>>>>>

Doesn’t he look threatening? He’s harmless, but this is what he looks like when he plays football.
Or so I hope.

But for me, the football will be hard and I hope for Decanus’ sake, it isn’t too hard.
See my friend, the Doctor, is a sporty energetic man. If I remember correctly, my old friend is a shouting, aggressive bloke when playing. I, I’m afraid to say, am none such thing. Well, maybe shouty. Decanus too is a sporty man – he gyms, he will run a marathon this year. Even the team’s ‘biggest’ player is probably far more athletic than I. But nonetheless, I shall rise above it and once again, become a footballer.
For thirteen minutes each half.
I shall ache, I shall get cramp, and I’ll probably cough up my lungs but yes, I shall be, a footballer again.

I’ve heard the Doctor has been boning up on research, reading an edition of FourFourTwo that has Arsene Wenger’s guide to five-a-sides in it. Nice. Decanus will probably wake up tomorrow, limber up and prepare his mind throughout the day. I shall have a beer on the train home and see what happens. He emailed over the teamsheet this morning, all nicely laid out on half a green football pitch the size of A5 paper when printed, letting us know the starting six. (It’s pasted below).

I’m adopting the no running, playmaker role in midfield – I like to think of it as the fountain, distributing passes, spraying the ball around. Like Tommy, Tommy Huddlestone – the future of English football (except the Newcastle game at the weekend… shame).

I’m afraid I’ll be a bit more the stone, not moving and looking lifeless.

But it’s nice while it lasted. At least for these few seconds here, I’m mentally a footballer. But I’ll try my hardest goddammit, I’ll fight for Dynamo Chicken Kiev and kiss it’s buttery badge of herbs and chicken and oozing watery stuff from inside its beautiful breadcrummy exterior.chickenkiev.jpg

And if, perchance, we win the game and I notch a couple of goals, then I’ll walk home happy with myself and with a spring in my step, faith restored in life. And I’ll walk into that pub. I’ll breathe in it’s smoky air. I’ll neck that pint and… fuck it… I’ll buy a 99p frozen Chicken Kiev from the Turkish corner shop on the way home.

Then again, if it goes badly, I don’t expect I’ll write about this again.


Tuesday’s line up

essex rage.

October 23, 2006

Saw a bit of rage after the Tottenham-West Ham game on Saturday. I am now using the ‘pinboard’ as a place for these kind of short writings.

————————————-READ HERE—->>>>>>>>

I don’t hate Essex, but I do generally dislike Romford. Some people there are great, but it just seems to attract idiots with the wrong attitudes. This is a reprint of some thoughts on Romford.


One night in Essex…

Through the station’s exit I see my first glance of the familiar sights: the pigeon shit, McDonalds, the pubs and bars and clubs and ah, yes, the cock(y) lads and the skimpily dressed gals. Taking a deep breath of Ford exhaust fumes, I walk down South Street, the main hub of Romford’s nightlife. I stop and look out into the night.
Types of Romfordian youth: the underage major and underage minor. Underage minor is roughly 14-16 and has told her mother she is at a sleepover. These girls are out to salvage their reputation at school and prove they can cut the mustard.
The underage major is your veteran who will have been going out in Romford for years. These girls will usually be loud, brash and will have struck friendships with bouncers due to reasons I wish not to mention. These girls are the benchmark for the underage, they are cool.
Next, the forever teenagers. The ones who haven’t changed since they matured enough to pass underage major, bin their fake IDs and become adults. They work jobs they don’t care about and meet their chums every weekend to drink away their wages, tongue some guy in a club and occasionally get the odd pump up round the back of the Wetherspoons.
These individuals work in the area and just love their nights out down Yates’ and Brannigans. Time & Envy too, which is so classy that a now very famous footballer once swamped its bar before his evolution into the respectable parent and England international he is today. The forever teens are veterans of this scene, and will put their bare flesh out to the chill of the night for as long as it can take.1.jpg
Next up, come the Chavs. These surprisingly cover a wide age range. In Romford, how can you notice who’s Chav and who’s not, when everyone wears the same clothes? Gold chains, polo shirts, tracksuit bottoms, burberry, Nickelson, Hackett. That’s the uniform. Yes, you can be middle aged and be a chav.
We continue our tour of the outgoing youth with the wide boys. These are the commuting bankers, who just can’t let the legend of Romford die. Rather than move on, these lads love to be the big fish in a small pond, and will splash their cash in the high-cost places like Time. They will only go out on the strip and love any excuse to splash out, impressing their mates with the size of their wad. You can speculate yourself as to why they live this way.
And finally, the out-of-placers. People, like myself, who can’t yet find a way out. Luckily, I did in the end, others love it so and wish to stay. An old friend of mine who I knew for years as a youngster has become a Tory councillor for Havering. If he thinks he’ll be able to change Romford, he’s mistaken.
So as night encroaches, the sky begins to crackle and the rain comes in. In most places worldwide, the rain is usually a time where people bring out coats and umbrellas. In Romford however, no-one wears coats, and the girls run from bar to bar in their sodden strappy tops and miniskirts and see through tops and nipples. The blokes walk slowly; they’re too hard for rain and would rather abuse the grunge kids walking past. Occasionally, they will see a big-nosed man and call him Jewish. Yes, that happened to me (I’m not by the way, which made it even weirder).
But after all this, is it still possible to feel warmth towards the creatures of the night?
Romford may be rude, brash, boozy and loud but doesn’t it have some charm? That depends. It’s the only place in the world Thatcher the milk snatcher gets mobbed by adoring fans when visiting its marketplace. It’s a place where an MP can be elected with a huge landslide victory, despite his belief in gun ownership, membership of the Tory’s banned Monday club and despite having links to a fascist youth organisation in Italy.
It’s a place where you can guarantee that there will be cheap, alcohol-pop fuelled women, dancing on poles in bars on the strip, giving it up to all and sundry.
It’s a place where a lad can get stabbed, just for sitting and waiting for a lift home.




So, England went crashing out of the World Cup on Saturday (July 1) after losing again on penalties. Again.Rooney sent off.
The mass media at the moment are desperately scrambling around for a reason, and seemingly, it’s Eriksson. Unfortunately (and despite the problems I have with him and his ‘tactical prowess’) , it’s not just a failure of the management, it’s a failure of the players and the F.A..
This is an opportunity to right some wrongs. To correct a serious imbalance in the team. The overpaid Premiership ‘stars’ believe all the hype. They believe this is the best league in the world and their wages seem to show this too. This is breeding an arrogrance, that seems to indicate that we can win just by turning up. At no point in the tournament did our lot seem really motivated, except, arguably, after Rooney’s sending off. It seemed to be a situation where players just weren’t switched on, believing victory can be achieved just by turning up.
Can a team really be focussed when their camp is a-buzz with talk of their wives and girlfriends? I’m not sure whether having them there is neccessarily wrong but the media circus is not going to focus the players on the matches. Especially when every press conference is filled by questions about winning the tournament.
As for the team and tactics, Eriksson played himself into trouble by only selecting four strikers. Today he’s said, “it is a great experience for Walcott”. Well, if you want to prepare l’il Theo, by all means take him along. Other youngsters just go along with the squad in other countires, not actually as a squad member. If you can’t envisage playing him, even with all the injuries and lack of options… What is the point?
Additionally, it seems we fail to decide in advance how to play. Changing approaches every day is fine if your players are drilled and know how to play in each system. And our lot should. To correct this, we have to have a manager who can decide on which way we will play. Keeping the ball and dictating games, with patience and learning to beat other countries the way they play the game. Or high tempo, flat back line, like in the Premiership, playing high impact and high energy. We cannot keep playing in between, reduced to pumping long balls when we can’t see an obvious pass. As much as I don’t like Steve McClaren, this is a chance to change. We should not continue the failures of the Erikson era. Klinsmann took on his job by saying that the players would have to get 70% fitter. Our players were knackered by half time.
If you look at Germany, they thought they’d be out of the tournament early doors. But, even worst case scenario, at least they will have changed the approach of the national team for years to come. Klinsmann’s impact will be felt after he has gone. Their fitness and mental state is something that will linger on with tournament preparations. Their belief in young players and fresh minds over experience. A player with hunger is far more effective than one who knows his stock is high already. Look at the big players of the tournament: Ronaldinho, Lampard, Totti. They have failed to impress.
Finally, whilst drinking in a Portugese bar on Saturday (what a schoolboy error), a lad from a national daily was explaining how one of his newspaper’s photographers had climbed a tree, out in Germany, and seen a behind-doors penalty shoot out. Only Jamie Carragher had scored. If we can’t score penalties in training, how on earth can we do in a match?